UC-NRLF 


American  Dramatists  Series 


jlelmort)  tfje  Mantierer 


Jiabibson  anb  f  ost ptj  feobm 


American  Dramatists  Series 

MELMOTH 
THE  WANDERER 

A   Play    in   Five  Acts 
BY 

GUSTAV  DAVIDSON 

and 
JOSEPH   KOVEN 


BOSTON:      THE   POET  LORE   COMPANY 

TORONTO:       THE    COPP    CLARK    CO.,    LIMITED 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Gustav  Davidson  and  Joseph  Koven 


All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


Affectionately  dedicated  to 
MAX  DAVIDSON 


372219 


MELMOTH 
THE  WANDERER 


PROLOGUE 

Satan. 

Melmoth,  a  Monk. 

Two  other  Monks. 


THE  PLAY 

Satan. 

Melmoth,  King  of  Elsmere. 

Kemiss,  the  "Old  Duke." 

Esmund,   his  son. 

Pellas,  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

St.  Francis,  his  son   (Later,  Marquis  of  Lode.) 

Toussan,  a  confederate  of  St.  Francis'. 

John,  known  as  "The  Pretender''  rightful  heir  to 

the  throne. 
Royce,  Dohlgrin,  Brabant,  Berkeley,  Officers  in  the 

King's  Army,  and  friends  to  John. 
Splinters. 

Steele,  De  Forest,  Edwin,  Courtiers. 
A  Poet. 
A  Painter. 
A  Jeweler. 
Another  Jeweler. 
A  Physician. 

Dolora,  daughter  of  the  "Old  Duke." 
Cedrielle,  her  companion. 
Margaret,  a  waiting-maid. 
Mickle. 

Spirit  of  Satan,  Ambassadors  from  foreign  parts, 
lords,  ladies,  courtiers,  masqueraders,  soldiers,  mes 
sengers,  guards,  attendants,  musicians,  commoners. 

Scene  of  Prologue — Monastery. 
Scene  of  Play — Elsmere. 
Time — Eighteenth   Century. 


PROLOGUE 

Bells  toll  the  fifth  hour  before  rising  of  the 
curtain.  Then  discovered  a  high  Gothic  Chamber, 
hexagonal  in  shape,  in  a  Monastery  of  St.  Bene 
dict.  To  back  of  stage,  on  the  hypothenuse,  two 
long  stained  glass  windows  open  on  vertical  hinges; 
they  afford  a.  view  of  the  heavens,  which  is  of  the 
after-sunset  glow,  and  darkens  as  scene  progresses. 
Rude  furniture.  Walls  adorned  with  dusty  old 
paintings  of  religious  character.  To  right,  down 
stage,  is  a  stand  with  a  bible  open  upon  it.  To  left, 
in  line  with  it,  is  a  long  narrow  table  upon  which 
there  are  several  tapers,  a  number  of  odd  volumes 
and  manuscripts.  Two  Monks  are  discovered.  First 
Monk,  wth  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand,  is  before  a 
shelf  of  books  set  up  in  a  dark  corner  to  the  right,  up 
stage.  Second  Monk  is  in  the  act  of  lighting  candles 
on  the  table  to  left. 

First  Monk.  Tell  me,  brother,  what  is  the  word 
of  the  Lord  against  those  who  betray  their  office 
in  the  Church? 

Second  Monk.  Betray  their  office  in  the  Church  ? 
Why,  is  there  any  cause  that  you  do  ask  me  this? 

First  Monk.     I  fear  me  much  there  is. 

Second  Monk.     What  do  you  mean? 

First  Monk.  You  know,  brother,  there  are  those 
in  the  lap  of  the  Mother  Church  who  make  nothing 
of  the  observances  of  the  most  solemn  rites — 


8         MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Second  Monk.     Well?— 

First  Monk.  Who  question  the  soundest  prin 
ciples  of  religion;  whose  faith's  grown  so  sick, 
they've  thrust  aside  the  holy  word  of  God  and 
turned  to  doubt  and  argument.  (Pause.)  One 
of  such  a  mood,  brother,  is  there  among  us ! 

Second  Monk.     You  say,   "among  us?" 

First  Monk.     Ay. 

Second  Monk.  But  who  is  he?  I'll  speak  soft. 
Tell  me,  who  is  he? 

First  Monk.     Have  you  then  not  observed — ? 

Second  Monk.     Brother  Melmoth? 

First  Monk.  Thou  hast  it  there!  Men  have 
wandered  from  the  sight  of  God,  but  none  so  far  as 
he. 

Second  Monk.  I  have  observed  him.  What  you 
tell  me  is  confirmation  of  my  suspicions  of  him 
lately.  There  is  indeed  a  terrible  change  come  over 
him.  His  face  has  taken  on  the  color  of  his  doubis; 
it  is  pale.  I  remember  being  near  him  to-day  at 
matins.  He  did  not  join  us  in  prayer,  nor  did  I 
fail  to  note  how  tight  he  had  his  lips  compressed, 
and  how  he  looked  down  upon  the  assembled 
brotherhood  with  that  full  and  deliberate  scorn  that 
shodd  make  us  tremble  for  his  soul.  Last  night 
he  failed  to  vespers. 

First  Monk.     Ay,  why  was  that,  tell  me? 

Second  Monk.  Was  he  not  sick?  That  was  his 
answer,  no? 

First  Monk.  Sick,  ay,  in  the  spirit — not  in  the 
flesh.  When  I  repaired  to  his  cell  I  found  open 
before  him  certain  forbidden  readings  wherein  he 
was  engrossed.  I  addressed  him,  and  attempted  to 
divert  his  attention  from  them;  but  he  turned  upon 


PROLOGUE  9 

me  angrily  and  would  have  struck  me.  It  pained 
me  mightily  to  see  him  so  abandoned.  He  needs 
prayer  and  penance. 

Second  Monk.  Proof  more  than  prayer,  brother; 
and  that  he'll  find  in  himself,  not  through  us.  Rea 
son  cannot  create  our  faith:  it  only  sustains  the 
faith  already  in  us.  Melmoth  is  a  wise  man,  but 
one  who  looks  not  to  that  depth  where  simplicity 
resides  and  reflects  the  grand  spirit  of  God.  There 
he  is  now. 

(Enter  Melmoth.) 

Melmoth.  Heh,  they  speak  of  me.  Always 
they  speak  of  me;  I  wot,  in  faith,  not  well. 
They  hate  me.  They  are  jealous  of  me.  They  fear 
my  learning,  yet  do  they  admire  that  fault  in  me 
which  they  dare  not  themselves  possess.  Heigh  ho, 
brothers!  Good  faith!  (To  First  Monk.)  What 
is  on  your  mind  that  is  not  upon  your  face?  Heh, 
I  can  read  your  visage  so,  I  pity  you.  (To  Second 
Monk.)  And  you,  you  have  lips,  use  them  to  ad 
vantage.  Speak  not  of  me  ever.  Use  your  lips  for 
prayer. 

First  Monk.  Thou  hast  more  need  for  prayer, 
Melmoth. 

Melmoth.  Not  I,  upon  my  soul,  not  I !  To  pray 
is  to  beg,  to  flatter,  to  lean  against,  and  that  hath 
a  selfish  end  to  it. 

First  Monk.  Why  art  thou  not  grateful  for 
what  thou  hast? 

Melmoth.  (Contemptibly.)  What  have  I? 
What  thou  hast!  Satisfaction  therein  would  be  sin. 
Pooh!  You  are  asleep,  asleep!  I  ask  nothing — 
nothing  of  Him.  Whatever  I  crave,  I  seek  to  get 
without  His  aid ;  if  he  would  deny  me,  let  Him,  let 


io        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Him! 

Both  Monks.  O,  words  unbecoming  and  grace 
less  !  Where  is  your  faith,  Melmoth  ?  Or  are  you 
lost  to  reason? 

Melmoth.  Nay,  won  to  reason.  And  faith? 
Fled  with  the  coming  of  reason.  Where's  tyranny 
greater  than  the  tyranny  of  faith?  This  stops  up 
the  peep-hole  to  understanding ;  this  makes  us  small, 
weak,  humble,  when  we  should  be  mighty  in  the 
glory  and  consciousness  of  self;  afraid,  when  we 
should  be  bold ;  slack,  when  the  energies  of  this  uni 
verse  are  ours  to  use  or  to  neglect ;  dependent,  when 
we  have  it  in  ourselves  to  wipe  out  the  total  im 
press  of  reality  and  make  creation  a  blank!  Why 
are  we  here,  eh?  To  break  up  the  monotony  of 
His  eternal  time,  tell  me!  Nor  are  we  given  to 
know  what  fools  he  makes  of  us.  Were  He  not 
happy  in  man's  perversity,  He  would  not  have 
fashioned  us  so  imperfect,  so  remiss.  He  toys  with 
us;  creates  temptations  and  then  sets  His  Canon 
against  them;  frightens  us  to  make  us  fear  Him; 
blinds  us  to  make  us  worship  Him.  He  gives  and 
scorns  our  pleasures,  for  seldom  is  it  that  the  last 
tear  shed  at  great  happiness  is  not  the  first  to  fall  at 
great  sorrow.  Why  do  you  stare  at  me  with  mouths 
open  like  choked  cats?  You  are  alarmed  at  the 
truth?  Know  you  not  we  are  nothing  better  than 
monkeys  dancing  to  a  fool's  fife? 

First  Monk.     O  sacrilege! 

Second  Monk.  Good  brother,  question  not  the 
wisdom  of  the  Lord.  The  work  of  His  hand  is 
beyond  imitation  and  the  work  of  His  mind  beyond 
our  ken. 

Melmoth.     Excellent,  upon  my  soul! 


PROLOGUE  ii 

Second  Monk.     The  Lord  ft  is  whose  righteous 
ness  endureth. 

He  alone  can  judge  us  in  our  ways. 
All  which  is,  is  right,  for  He  ensureth 
Truth  and  Justice  to  th'  eternal  days. 
Melmoth.      (Sarcastically.)     Amen!  amen!  that's 
perfect  assurance! — 

Wherein  see  you  the  judgment  of  the  Lord 
That's  held  to  be  unerring  and  forever, 
When  right's  still  at  the  mercy  of  the  sword, 
And  wrong  prevaileth  mightier  then  ever? 
Nay,  where's  this  grand  and  everlasting  Master 
Who'd  keep  us  bound  in  ignorance  and  fear; 
Who'd  make  us  blind  to  make  the  struggle  vaster 
And  never  bring  the  resurrection  near? 
Where  is  this  God  you  speak  of?    Above,  below, 
within,  without, — where  ? 

First  Monk.     Mother  of  Christ,  defend  us! 

Melmoth. — Nowhere,  nothing! 

Second   Monk.     God's    within    ourselves,    that's 

all  the  story. 

Man  forsaking  Him,  forsakes  himself; 
He  that  looks  to  Heaven  sees  the  Glory. 
He  that  looks  to  Hell  sees  hell  itself. 

(Bells  toll.) 
Come,  brother,  here's  vespers. 

Melmoth.     Take  to  your  prayers  and  trash! 
First  Monk.     Heaven  keep  him. 
Melmoth.     Ay,  there's  light  and  glory  above  us, 
but  'tis  not  for  Man.     Why  does  that  selfish  God 
who   means  to   share   Heaven   for   aye,   give   us   a 
glimpse  of  that   Heaven   to  make  us  discontented 
here  on  earth?     (Exeunt  both  Monks.)  Unreal  are 
thy  dreams,  oh  man!     And  what  is  thy  life — the 


12        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

profit  of  thy  being? — A  shuttle,  a  shuttle,  and  a 
broken  weft-thread.     (Pause.) 

For  me  the  light  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  world  itself  and  all  the  world  can  yield 

Holds  out  not  anything  my  senses  crave. 

The  bonds  of  sympathy  that  make  us  one 

With  th'  incorporeal  spirit  o'  the  earth 

And  win  us  into  the  circle  of  the  universe 

Have  dropped  from  me.    The  thought  of  pleasure's 

palled. 

And  even  melancholy,  sweet  self-torturer, 
Intellect's  most  cherished  campanion,    (Approaches 
Brings  no  longer  solace.     I  am  lost  window.) 

Beyond  a  faltering  thought,  beyond  recall, 
To  faith  in  life  and  life's  availing  ends.  (Looks  out) 

Ye  stars!     Ye  everlasting  orbs  and  circling  worlds 
That  cluster  round  in  mystic  constellation 
And  string  out  to  the  last  echo  of  infinity, — 
What  are  ye? — 

Unknowing  and  unknowable?    Alike 
Denied  that  deep  and  all-inquiring  gaze 
Which  questions  why  of  One  who  will  not  say 
And  scorns  in  very  silence?     (Star  shoots  across  the 
Oh!     And  what  art  thou,  sky.) 

Showing  for  a  moment  like  a  thought 
Caught  up  in  a  dream,  then  off  again 
Into  the  staggering  space  of  endlessness 
From  whence  thou  hast  arisen? 
Art  thou  the  emblem  of  a  fate  encompassed? 
Does  thy  light  now  vanished  speak  of  worlds  eclipsed 
And   worlds   new   born,   with    days   on   days   and 
morrows 


PROLOGUE  13 

Upon  morrows,  snatching  up  the  thread  of  time 
And  spinning  it  unwearily  unto 
Everlastingness ?     Oh  me!     Oh  thought! 

(A  moment  overcome.} 

If  I  could  wring  the  riddle  of  the  spheres 
And  know  of  all — the  wherefore  and  the  why! 
If,  from  star  to  star,  from  world  to  world, 
In  but  a  single  moment  I  could  fly, 
Encompassing  the  thought  beyond  our  thought — 
The  vision  beyond  our  now-imperfect  one — 
I'd  yield  my  soul!     (Pause.} 
Alluring  dream,  canst  thou  be  realized? 
Perhaps  in  countless  eons  yet  to  come 
The  rnists  will  rise,  but  then  of  me  will  be 
Dust,  Death,  Oblivion, — harrowing  spectres 
That  sit  and  wait  at  life's  fantastic  feast. 

(Takes  dagger  from  garment.) 
There  is  a  sleep,  as  soundless  as  secure, 
That  locks  out  life's  dramatic  naughts  once  only. 
But     .     .     .     shall  this  be  now — 

(Regarding  dagger.} 
With  life  in  the  fullest  sum  of  living? 
Once  nearer  and  then  the  end.     (Pause.)     The  end 

to  what? — 

The  here  and  hereafter?    Ay;  but  be  there 
A  beginning  elsewhere  that  cannot  matter — 
That  cannot  make  us  pause. 
It  is  not  death  or  what's  beyond  this  death 
We  tear,  so  much,  as  life's  surcease. 
The  dread  of  being  not  is  ten  times  o'er 
Louder  than  the  threat  of  judgment. 
Yet  come  thou  sovereign  instrument  and  rend 
This  threadbare  go-between  of  birth  and  death 


H        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

That  hangs  wavering  and  web-like  across  the  bridge 
Linking  the  eternities.  (Suddenly.} 

Who's  there? 

What  phantom's  this  that  comes  so  freely  upon  me? 

Speak!      (Satan  begins  to  appear.) 

Are  you  real?     Have  you  substance?     Form? 

Or  are  you  conjured  up  by  my  imaginings 

Grown  wild  with  longing?     Is  this  madness?    Say! 

You  weigh  upon  the  unsubstantial  air 

Like  a  stifling  smoke! 

Satan.     What,    Melmoth,    afraid    of    phantoms? 

Melmoth,     Who  are  you,  speak! 

Satan.  Be  composed.  It  is  only  I,  and  I  am  one 
that  should  not  frighten  you. 

Melmoth.  (Recovering.)  Nay,  you  have  not.  It 
was  the  old  fear  of  something  sudden  to  the  impres 
sion  of  the  senses  that  affected  me,  not  thou,  nay, 
not  thou!  Why  should  you,  eh?  But  who  are  you, 
at  that?  What  business  have  you  here?  Had  I 
any  faith  in  old  wives'  tales  or  legends  of  the 
church,  I'd  claim  to  know  you. 

Satan.     The  faith  of  your  own  eyes — 

Melmoth.     Come,  what  shall  I  call  thee? 

Satan.     Thine   own   name.    Melmoth. 

Melmoth.  Is  thine  so  terrible  that  you  debate 
its  utterance? 

Satan.  Rather,  it  is  so  common  there's  little  re 
spect  in  telling  it. 

Melmoth.     Heh,    I   know   thee   now! 

Satan.  As  well  as  thou  knowest  thyself.  But, 
what  matters  it  who  I  am,  so  long  as  I  can  grant 
you  your  desires? 

Melmoth.     Eh — ?     You  know  them  then! 


PROLOGUE  '  15 

Satan.     Thoroughly. 

Melmoth.     And  how  is  it  that  you  know  them? 

Satan.  To  the  two  Eternals,  knowledge  is  the 
only  burden. 

Melmoth.  (Eagerly.}  And  would  you  grant 
me  my  desires? 

Satan.     I  would. 

Melmoth.  (Increduously.)  The  utmost  of 
them? 

Satan.     The  greatest  as  readily  as  the  least. 

Melmoth.  (Sceptically.)  That  would  be  kind 
ness  from  an  evil  source. 

Satan.  A  common  enough  thing  in  this  little 
merry-go-round. 

Melmoth.  But  in  his  transactions,  the  Devil  in 
sures  an  earned  premium,  giving  this  for  that  and 
nothing  gratis. 

Satan.  True!  True!  How  well  we  understand 
each  other,  Melmoth.  And  knowing  this,  would 
you  not  deal  with  me? 

Melmoth.  So,  so;  if  your  conditions  are  accept 
able. 

Satan.  Oh  we  shall  come  to  terms,  be  thou  as 
sured.  I'm  a  pleasant  partner  in  a  deal. 

Melmoth.  That  is  excellent  on  your  extreme. 
But  dealings  with  the  Devil,  'tis  known,  tho  they 
be  auspicious  of  the  fairest  consequence,  meet  with 
high  disaster  in  the  end. 

Satan.     Who    has    not    ventured    has    not    won. 

Melmoth.     Or  lost. 

Satan.     If  so  he  may. 

Melmoth.     I  am  lost  before  I  have  begun. 

Sata?i.     If  that  were  so  I  were  not  here. 

Melmoth.     Nay,   you    are   here   because    'tis   so. 


16        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

You  are  Satan,  the  Master-Mind,  the  Turn-Head 
of  mortals,  and  that  is  something! 

Satan.  'Tis  plain  your  will  is  nurseling  to  your 
fears.  You  would  be  great,  and  yet,  when  the  goal 
is  in  your  arm-length  reach,  you  would  not  grasp 
the  means  to  come  by  it.  Call  me  not  Satan.  'Tis 
the  name  you  balk  at.  Let  us  say  that  I  am  air; 
that  I  am  an  abstraction,  real  to  your  imaginings 
alone.  Well  then,  would  you  not  accept  of  air,  of 
anything,  that  which  you  so  madly  crave,  and  say 
it  was  yourself  that  granted  it?  Be  bold  with  me, 
Melmoth;  your  own  reason  shall  win  me  to  your 
confidence.  Look  upon  me  as  the  spirit  of  your 
desires;  soliloquize  with  it;  question  it;  ask  it  what 
you  will ;  you  yourself  will  know  the  proper  answer. 
You  yourself  would  give  up  twice  the  promises  you 
set  at  naught  for  that  which  is  in  my  power  to  grant 
you.  Oh,  how  much  greater  is  the  light  you  crave 
than  your  conception  of  it.  What  is  this  world  to 
you — to  men  of  compass!  What  are  its  delights, 
its  ambitions,  its  entire  attractions,  but  a  dreary 
contemplation — a  dry  and  bootless  study?  See  how 
your  soul  is  flapping  with  its  eager  wings  against  the 
prison-bars  of  your  own  casting!  See  how  it  pants 
for  liberty  that  it  may  breathe  the  rarer  air  of 
heaven,  its  native  atmosphere!  Come  now,  give 
me  an  answer  worthy  of  the  intellect  and  of  the 
man  before  me.  You  hesitate.  (Pause.}  No? 
'Tis  just  as  well.  (Satan  begins  to  go.}  H'm. 
Thus  it  is  that  little  man,  confronted  with  the  thing 
he  thought  himself  above,  falls  flat  before  it;  and 
thus  it  is,  that  in  a  moment,  courage  and  resolves  of 
many  years'  fermenting,  are  dismissed.  I  leave  you. 

Melmoth.      (Aside.}      Heh,  what  now?     There 


PROLOGUE  17 

is  the  substance  of  my  only  hope,  but  now  re-animat 
ed,  now  dissolving.  Stay!  Self-destruction  makes 
an  end  and  forfeits  all;  in  light  there's  chance. 
Satan,  stay! 

Satan.     You  bid  me  pause? 

Melmoth.     Yes — 

Satan.     To  bid  me  go  again? 

Melmoth.     No — 

Satan.  Then  what?  I  am  impatient.  Are  you 
still  without  determination? 

Melmoth.      (Hesitating.}      Satan — 

Satan.     Yes?— 

Melmoth.  Make  me  all-knowing  and  all-power 
ful  !  Give  me  the  key  to  the  great  Invisible !  Open 
up  to  me  the  mystery  of  the  world,  that  everything 
shall  be  as  clear  to  me  as  the  crystal  of  the  Magi! 
If  so  you  do,  I'll  give  thee  all  thy  asking,  I'll  barter 
away  my  soul ! 

Satan.  Ah!  There  is  strength  and  passion  in 
your  speech,  Melmoth.  Now  you  are  earnest — 
sincere — intent ! 

Melmoth.     Satan  knows  I   am. 

Satan.  That  is  well,  my  friend,  and  were  so 
well  if  other  things,  which  I  now  bethink  me  I've 
neglected  to  discover  to  you,  stood  not  in  the  way. 
Who  would  not,  tell  me, — and  I'll  fling  this  chal 
lenge  into  the  teeth  of  the  world — who  would  not 
surrender  his  soul  for  the  glory  of  Knowledge  and 
Power?  There  are  thousands,  Melmoth,  that  have 
mightily  aspired  to  the  like,  and  as  many  mightily 
failed.  Who  is  it,  therefore,  that  shall  qualify? 

Melmoth.     "Qualify?"  What  mean  you,  Satan? 

Satan.  As  men  of  the  world  qualify  for  station, 
advancement,  and  degrees  in  office,  so  must  one 


1 8        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

qualify  for  this  advancement,  the  most  super 
lative.  First  one  must  chart  the  depths,  the  shal 
lows  and  the  flats;  the  calms  and  storm-centers  of 
the  world.  Then,  if  having  known  and  survived 
them,  he  can  cry  out  in  all  the  sureness  of  sin 
cerity:  "All  sympathy  between  the  world  and  me 
has  ceased" — 

Melmoth.  (Repeating.)  "All  sympathy  be 
tween  me  and  the  world  has  ceased." — You  need 
not  go  further,  Satan.  Speak  it  in  words  of  thun 
der!  Write  it  in  letters  of  flame!  I  cry  it  out  now! 

Satan.     That  you  cannot. 

Melmoth.     Cannot? 

Satan.  No,  for  sympathies  for  the  world  are 
still  clinging  to  you. 

Melmoth.  Nay,  nay,  Satan,  you  mistake  me.  I 
am  alone.  I  am  indifferent  to  all  this  sphere  of 
sorrow  and  servility.  I  tell  you  I  am  alone — com 
pletely  alone. 

Satan.     I  doubt  me,   Melmoth,  that  you  are. 

Melmoth.  You  err,  Satan,  you  purposely  err; 
or  is  it  that  you  do  not  understand  me?  I  have 
nothing  in  common  with  men.  Long  ago  I've  turn 
ed  my  back  upon  the  vanities  of  the  world;  I've 
ripped  the  Earth  Spirit  from  my  breast,  and  stand 
aside,  not  only  not  an  actor,  but  lacking  even  the 
interest  to  be  a  spectator. 

Satan.  Well  said  but  better  proved.  I  am  scep 
tical. 

Mebnoth.  Then  how  shall  it  be  determined? 
Say  you,  Satan,  say  you. 

Satan.     By  a  test. 

Melmoth.     A  test? 

Satan.     Ay. 


PROLOGUE  19 

Melmoth.     And  that  test — ? 

Satan.  Shall  lie  in  this;  I'll  thrust  you  into  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  life;  create  you  monarch  of  a 
mighty  realm,  and  place  at  your  disposal  the  means 
of  tasting  of  all  things, — to  yield  to,  or  to  sur 
mount.  Wars  will  be  waged;  worlds  will  whirl 
about  you  to  have  or  to  destroy;  a  thousand  pas 
sions  will  assail  you;  crime  and  probity,  good  and 
evil,  love  and  hate  will  be  the  easy  gifts  of  your 
heart  and  hand.  If  no  sympathies  for  the  world  are 
awakened  when  thus  brought  in  contact  with  it, 
you  have  triumphed,  and  attain  the  high  light  of 
your  desires.  But  if,  in  the  course  of  the  trial, 
you  realize  that  there  are  bonds  so  imperishable 
within  you  that  you  cannot  deny  them,  nor  fight 
against  them,  then  have  you  failed.  Whatever  the 
outcome  of  this  test,  the  forfeit  is  the  same.  What 
say  you  to  it? 

Melmoth.     I  understand — 

Satan.     And  understanding  me,  are  you  resolved? 

Melmoth.      (Slowly.)     I  am  resolved. 

Satan.  The  tests  upon  you,  then.  Now  'tis  an 
even  tide;  you  know  the  hazard  and  'tis  all-in-all! 
In  your  most  need  I'll  come  to  you,  either  when  you 
are  on  the  other  bank  arrived  or  sucked  into  an 
eddy  of  your  own. 

(Stage  grows  dark  until  Melmoth  and  Satan  arc 
swallowed  up.  Bells  toll,  and  there  is  a  sound  as  of 
prayer.) 

Curtain 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I — The  Throne  Room  in  the  Palace  of 
Elsmere.  The  Throne  is  to  the  extreme  left.  Room 
is  set  out  in  the  most  elegant  style.  Rich  tapestries 
and  hangings  adorn  the  walls.  The  floor  is  covered 
with  heavy  carpets  and  oriental  rugs.  Statuettes, 
pedestals,  divans  and  other  furnishings. 

Enter  De  Forest,  Edwin  and  Steele,  as  Palace- 
Guards. 

Steele.  I'll  lay  down  my  arms,  gentlemen,  and 
go  spin  wool ! 

Edwin.     How  now,  what's  the  matter? 

Steele.  This  is  duty  fit  for  rheum  and  pals}'. 
And  we  are  neither  old,  crabbed  nor  crippled.  Our 
place,  gentlemen,  should  be  upon  the  battlefield,  at 
the  king's  side,  fighting. 

De  Forest.  Rather  with  the  Prince,  for  he,  being 
our  friend  and  sometime  sympathizer  in  our  frolics, 
hath  sooner  claim  upon  our  affection  than  Melmoth. 

Edwin.     De  Forest,  forget  not,  we  are  subjects. 

De  Forest.  True ;  but  there's  a  better  bond  than 
that  what's  sworn  to. 

Edwin.     But  not  stronger. 

De  Forest.  Even  stronger;  for  friendship  goes 
beyond  allegiance,  as  touching  the  heart  earlier  than 
the  mind.  (Enter  messenger.) 

Edwin.     Here  comes  a  messenger  from  the  field. 

Steele.  Intercept  his  news.  There's  much  will 
come  of  it. 

Edwin.     Fellow,  what's  tidings  abroad? 

Messenger.     Where's  the  Lord  Chamberlain? 
20 


ACT  I  21 

All.     What's  news  abroad?     Come  now! 
Messenger.     I'll  not  tell  it  twice.     Where's  the 
Lord  Chamberlain! 

Edwin.  That  need  not  concern  thee  much !  Tell 
us  the  news  and  we'll  convey  the  intelligence  our 
selves. 

Messenger.     Pray,  sirs,  do  not  delay  rne.     I've 
fought  hard  and  ridden  long.     Where's  His  Lord 
ship!     Will  you  lead  me  to  him  or  no? 
Edwin.     No. 

Messenger.  Then,  sir,  I'll  seek  him  myself. 
(Aloud.)  My  good  Lord  Pellas!  My  good  Lord 
Pellas! 

Steele.  Peace!  peace!  sirrah!  Thou'lt  raise  the 
castle  by  thy  clamor! 

Messenger.      (Aloud.)      My  good   Lord   Pellas! 
De  Forest.     Come,  thou  saucy  fellow,  we'll  lead 
thee  to  him.     (All  go  out.) 

SCENE  2 — The  same. 
Enter  Royce  and  Dohlgrin. 
Dohlgrin.     Royce,  I  misgive  the  whole. 

Our  prince  was  ill-prepared  and  too  precipi 
tate 

For  the  encounter ;  the  more  the  reason, 
Since  so  much  depends  upon  the  outcome. 
If  by  an  unlucky  chance,  by  some 
Odd,  indelicate  trick  of  fate  which  makes 
A  bubble  of  great  expectations, 
Esmund  should  fail  to  lend  his  favored  arm 
Unto  the  prince,  or,  as  I  apprehend, 
Be  discovered  in  the  rendering, 
Then, — then — 
Royce.     Then,  what? 


22        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dohlgrin.     We  shall  be  like  the  builders  in  Alad 
din 

With    the    fabric   of    our   structure,    floated 

away. 

Royce.     Dohlgrin,  do  not  let  it  fret  3^ou.    What 
ever  follows  from 

This   day's  contention,   we  must  stern   our 
selves 

T'    accepting.     If    unhappy,    then    to    study 
out 

The  policy   those  of   us  in  union   with   the 
Prince 

Are  to  hold  in  the  juncture. 

And  this  for  comfort: 

There's  no  misfortune  but  hath  a  reconciling 
grain 

Of  hope  in  it;  we'll  worm  that  out. 

If  Melmoth  wins, 

Be   fortified  until   the  very  break 

Of  courage. 

Failure's  nothing  when  the  spirit's  firm — 

It  fans,  not  cools.     And  'tis  not  strange  to 
you 

That  Fortune  follows  those  who  scorn  her 
frowns, 

And  balks  at  those  too  timid  of  her  favors. 
Dohlgrin.     But   victory  were   more   nearly  con 
formable 

To  our  purpose. 

Royce.     That's  so  indeed.     I  spoke  of  failure  as 
contingent. 

Victory's  as  possible.     Oft  times  alone, 

Strength  of  purpose,  dominated  by 

Wild  earnestness  and  confidence  of  arms, 


ACT  I  23 

Has  triumphed  over  numbers. 
Dohlgrin.      (Pause.}     Is  there  yet  no  information 

from  the  field? 
Royce.     No. 

Dohlgrin.     I  wonder  there  is  not. 
Royce.     The  messengers  are  tardy.    I  cannot  ac 
count  for  it  else. 

Dohlgrin.     Oh,  I  would  the  outcome  of  the  fray 
were  known 

So  that  suspense, 

More  trying  than  the  knowledge  of  defeat, 

Might  sooner  be  relieved.     Even  as  I  speak, 

Our  Prince, 

Free  to  the  chance  of  every  venturing  ar 
row, 

And  bold  to  the  edge  and  thrust  of  traitor- 
swords, 

May  learn  the  fierceness  of  encounter,  and 
by't 

Lose  the  lesson. 

Royce.     Not  that,  Dohlgrin,  not  that!  You  speak 
unwell. 

We  cannot  afford  this  fear. 

John  must  live,  for  there's  no  thinking  oth 
erwise. 

Pray,  do  not  worry  o'er  the  moment  so, 

Nor  trim   it  with  such  sad   fancies  of   the 
mind 

As  torture  us  into  pale  suggestions, 

And  play  with  our  desires.     Be  rich  with 
hope, 

And  stand  firm  in  the  thought  that  Right, 

Delayed  awhile  in  her  composition, 

Triumphs  finally. 


24        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dohlgrin.     But  this  Melmoth,  they  say, 
Is  so  singly  fashioned  in  his  nature, 
So  iron-mighty  in  his  mastery, 
He's  strange  to  failure. 

Royce.     'Tis  nothing,  Dohlgrin,  but  our  dread  of 

him 

Makes  him  huge.     We,  made  weak 
By  want  of  confidence,  irresolution, 
Loss  of  spirits,  slavery  to  fear, 
See  only  the  Colossus  we  have  reared 
And  forget  the  man  himself. 
Nay,  be  he  as  terrible  as  Typhoeus 
And  thrice-forbidding, 
There  still  are  thunderbolts  to  quell  him. 
But  here's  news  in  haste. 

(Enter    Pellas,    Kemiss,    Messenger    and    Cour 
tiers). 

Dohlgrin.     There's   triumph   in   their  eyes;    my 
heart  sinks. 

Pellas.     (To  messenger.)     Half  our  anxious  fears, 

by  these  fair  words: 

"Melmoth  lives",  and  what  rejoiceth  us 
Even  equally,  "Is  mettle  to  the  fray", 
Have  been  allayed. 

The  other  half,  urged  by  the  quickening  spur 
Of  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  encounter 
Hangs  upon  the  temper  of  your  speech. 
Proceed  then  with  the  intelligence. 

Royce.     (Aside.)       Dohlgrin,    be    calm;    there's 
space  for  hope. 

Messenger.     We  came  upon  the  rebels  ere  the  sun 
Had  quite  described  the  quarter  of  his  arc 
Across  the  sky. 
It  was  near  Devon  on  the  farther  side 


ACT  I  25 

We  joined  in  battle.     Full  equal  to  our  num 
bers 

The  traitor-villains,  like  avenging  fiends 

Dedicated  to  destruction, 

Told  back  blow  for  blow,  and  all  the  while 

The  fateful  contest  held  without  a  tide 

To  force  an  either  current. 

Then  our  most  valiant  Melmoth  pressed  to 
the  front, 

And  by  the  action,  prompted  similar  among 
our  men. 

The    brunt   of    battle   weighed    against    his 
shield. 

He,  like  one  possessed,  with  tireless  sword, 

Flew  amongst  the  foe  and  cleaved  the  lines. 

The  coward  slaves  did  shrink  before  his  mien 

And   called   to   God   when   they  beheld  his 
plume 

Waving  like  Death  above  them.     Tho'  set 
about 

With  many  a  spear  presuming  towards  his 
heart, 

He  scorned  all  steel,  being  himself  invulner 
able. 

Thus  broke  he  through  the  vanguard  of  se 
cure  suspense, 

And  caused  the  enemy,  fly. 
Royce.      (Eagerly.)      But  thus  it  ended  not? 
Messenger.     No.      (Dohlgrin   looks   fo   Royce.) 

For   seeing   John    to   charge    our   strongest 
lance 

And  battle  on,  unpersuaded  by  the  panic, 

His  men   beat  back   the  palsying   ghouls  of 
fear 


26        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

And  rallied  to  the  fight,  and  once  again 
The  fate  of  victory  hung  but  on  a  cast, — 
So  closely    gambled  Triumph  and  Defeat, 
The   fickle   strumpets ! 
Thrice  did  we  urge  upon  them,  thrice  drew 

back; 

And  every  onslaught  yielded  neither  gain, 
But   robbed   the   ranks   of  many  an  earnest 

arm. 

Pellas.     Of  what  duration  was  this  changing  fit? 
Dohlgrin.     What  then  ensued,  say  on? 
Messenger.     The  conflict  slackened   at  the  hour 

of  noon, 
When  man  and  beast,  nigh  spent  with  brazen 

toil 
Did  labor  more  through  habit  than  through 

art. 

Thus  did  I  leave  them. 
Pellas.     And   this  was  noon? 
Messenger.     Ay. 
Royce.     'Tis  two  now. 
Pellas.     Is't   two? 
Kemiss.     I  take  'tis  more. 
Dohlgrin.     What  many  things  may  chance  have 

wrought  the  while 
To  give  the  tale  an  unfamiliar  face! 
Kemiss.      (To  Pellas.)     How  fare  our  sons,  my 

Lord? 
Royce.    .(To  ?nessenger.)     This  news  by  now  is 

stale  and  profitless. 
How  came  you  to  be  late? 
Messenger.      (Evasively.)       My    lords,     I    have 

more    news — 
Royce.     Impart   it   quickly!      Stand   not   on   the 


ACT  I  27 

word! 
Dohlgrin.      (To    Royce.)      Royce,    here    is    the 

worst ! 

Messenger.  They  spoke  of  treason  in  the  ranks — 
All.     What!     "Treason!" 
Messenger.     Ay;  and  of  no  inconsequence. 
Royce.     Treason,  alas! 
Dohlgrin.      (To   Royce.)      He   must   have   been 

betrayed. 
Royce      (To    Dohlgrin.)      There    is    no    doubt; 

few  knew  our  purpose. 
Pellas.      ( To  Messenger. )     Who  is  he  that  bears 

this  brand  of  guilt? 

Or  are  there  many  more  than  one  concerned  ? 
Messenger.     Of  this  am  I  ignorant.     So  much  is 

known : 

A  plot  to  annex  some  certain  cohorts 
To  the  Prince's,  and  trip  our  own  armies 
In  their  first  manoeuvres, 
Was  discovered  to  His  Royal  Majesty 
In  time  to  thwart  the  whole ; 
Else  'twould  have  worked  disaster  to  our  men 
And  made  sure  defeat. 
No  further  knowledge  of  the  matter,  sirs, 
Do  I  entertain. 

Ke/niss.    Alas  for  Elsmere,  when  continued  strife 
Shakes   her   from   that   dear   tranquillity 
Which  was  her  pride.     When  treason, 
Sprung   from    th'    unhealthy   womb   of    dis 
content, 

Which  instructs  us  to  rebellion, 
Makes  pale  the  name  of  honor  to  her  sons ! 
Pellas.      (To   Messenger.)      On   this   report   we 
rest  more  hope  than  anything. 


28        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Would  you  had  brought  us  more  apprising 

news 

And  fortified  our  trust  in  triumph! 
Royce.     But  whatever  befall,  the  State  must  be 

insured 

Against   encroaching  might  of   monarchy. 
Kemiss.    If  peace  could  join  with  might! — 
Dohlgrin.     And  might  with  clemency! — 
Pellas.     The  time's  not  now  to  speak  of  such  far 

things. 
The  present  is  fast  enough.     (Enter  Second 

Messenger. } 
First  Messenger.     Here  is  one  that  shall  decide 

our  doubts. 
Comrade,  good  cheer! 
Let  thy  words  commend  thy  presence  here. 
All.     Speak,  sir,  what  news? 
Second  Messenger.     The  victory  is  ours.     Mel- 
moth  comes  in  triumph  from  the  field. 
Royce  and  Dohlgrin.      (Breathlessly.}     And  what 

of  John? — Is  he  fallen? 
Second  Messenger.     The  base  pretender  with  a 

meagre   force 

Has  sought  safety  in  flight, — 
Dohlgrin.      (To  Royce.)      Unhappy  man! 
Second  Messenger.     And  Esmund — 
Royce  and  Dohlgrin.     Ay,  and  what  of  him? 
Second  Messenger.     Complicated  in  a  most  griev 
ous  charge 

Is  to  the  Tower  sent. 

All.      (But  Royce  and  Dohlgrin.}      Esmund! 
Kemiss.     Recall  yourself,  do  you  speak  soothe? 
Second  Messenger.     'Tis  even  as  I  say. 
Kemiss.     Why,  for  what  offence?     I  pray  you! 


ACT  I  29 

First  Messenger.     I  have  spoken  it  already. 

Second  Messenger.     Treason,   sir. 

Kemiss.     Sirs,  do  you  say  'treason?' 

Second  Messenger.     I  do. 

Kemiss.     Oh  God,  give  me  strength  to  bear  it 

all! 
Yet  I  should  ha'e  known  that  such  a  thing 

might  be. 

Love  for  the  prince  did  overrun  his  vows 
Even  as  a  stream, 
Contained  by  an  artificial  might, 
Will  overrun  its  dam. 
Lead  me  hence,  good  friends. 
Pellets.     (To  Kemiss.}     My  lord,  I'm  sorry  for 

your  sake. 
Royce.      (To  Kemiss.}     Be  of  brave  cheer,  my 

lord,  my  lord. 

Often  treason  hath  an  honor  in  it 
Loyalty  may  lack. 

(Exeunt  Kemiss  and  several  Courtiers.) 
Pellas.     Did  Francis    bear  him  well  ? 
Second  Messenger.     With    so   much   valor,    sir, 
that  he   gained   at  once   the  King's  high 
favor. 

Royce.     (Aside.)      Hear  that,  Dohlgrin! 
Second  Messenger.     He  is  a  soldier,  sir. 
Pellas.     In   that  he  is  all.     It     does  my  heart 

great  joy; 

He's  doubly  paid  in  gratitude  and  affection. 
(Sound  of  trumpets  and  drums.) 
The  King's  arrived,  my  lords.     Prepare  to 
welcome  him. 

(Enter  Melmoth,  as  king;   St.  Francis, 
Berkeley,   Brabant,    Toussan,   Splinters 


30        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

and  soldiers — some  of  whom  go  over  the 
stage  and  exeunt.) 

All.     All  hail!    All  hail!     All  hail! 
Melmoth.      (Sarcastically.)      Victory  over  life  is 

still  master  of  tribute! 
Heh,  I  could  almost  be  flattered  at  this  re 
ception  ! 
Acclaim   us  better,   my  lords,   better!     We 

have  drawn  first  blood. 
All.     All  hail!    All  hail! 
Melmoth.      (Abruptly.}      Pellas! 
Pellas.     My  gracious  lord? 
Melmoth.     Where    is    the    Old    Duke    Kemiss? 

Why  came  he  not  forth  to  greet  us? 
Pellas.     He   is  to  his  chambers  gone,   my  lord. 
He   is   unwell.     The   report  of   his  son's 
behaviour  broke  his  spirit,  and — 
Melmoth.     That's  an  indulgence  of  the  old  man, 
tell    me!      Him   we   wanted    most.     We 
have  much  to  command  of  him.  (Aloud.) 
But  for  the  stain  upon  our  victory's  crest 
Which  now  occasions  a  regretful  shift 
To  what  has  been, 
We  were  whole-honored  in  the  war, 
And  our  triumph,  perfect  as  the  cause 
That  occasioned  it — eh,  my  lord? 
A   Lord.     Ay,  my  lord — 

Melmoth-     Ay,  what — ?     You  know  not  what. 
A  Lord.      (Confused.)     Indeed,  my  lord — 
Melmoth.      (Continuing.)       But    every    joy    is 

sweeter  for  the  grain 

Of  bitterness  mixed  therein.    Were  there  no 
treason 
To  give  the  edge  to  conflict,  then  the  struggle 


ACT  I  31 

Were  less  genuine;    the    victory  less    cher 
ished. 

Yet  the  fault, 

Like  the  haze  upon  a  crystal,  dulls  the  thing. 

He  that's  guilty, 

And  all  that  had  a  say  in  bending  him 

To  such  a  following,  must  answer 

For  the  shame  that's  ours.     And  there  are 
those, 

I  promise,  though  secret  in  their  doings, 

Shall  be  forced, 

Into  self-condemning  eloquence.     ( To  Royce 
and  Dohlgrin.)     You,  sirs, 

Go  seek  old  Kemiss  out. 

Bring  him  promptly  to  our  presence  here, 

That  we  may  speak  to  him  and  so,  perchance, 

Discover    where    the    spring    and    fountain- 
head 

Of  this  most  inelegant  turn,  lies. 
(Melmoth  seats  himself  on   the  throne). 
Splinters.     Thou  hast  him  guilty,  king,  ere  thou 
hast  him  at  all.    Listen,  Splinters.  Who'll 
listen  to  a  fool  but  a  wise  man  ?    Yet,  me- 
thinks,  rather  the  unprejudiced  judgment 
of  a  fool  than  the  bias  of  a  king. 
Fellas.     My  lord,  I  say  it  without  motive  or  of 
fense  : 

The  Old  Duke  stands  high  above  suspicion. 

He  was  nothing  knowing  of  the  matter 

Until   'twas  common.     That  I   can  vouch 
safe. 

I   stood   by   him  when   the   intelligence  was 
brought; 

I  marked  his  mien,  and  if  the  duke  be  guilty, 


32       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

And  guilt  can  put  on  such  an  innocence, 
Then  is  guilt  none. 

Melmoth.     What,  Pellas,  do  you  defend  him? 
Pellas.     I  tell  my  Lord  the  truth. 
Melmoth.     I  asked  not  for  it.     Now,  sirs — (To 

Royce  and  Dohlgrin.) 

Splinters.     Old  men  and  fools  are  no  distant  rela 
tives;  and  fools  have  not  the  wisdom  to 
lie.     Therefore  believe  him,  king. 
Royce.     In  all  respect  of  office,  Most  High  Sov 
ereign, 

We  would  be  spared  this  uncongenial  duty 
That  makes  us  slack  in  the  performance  o't. 
Kemiss  is  not  well,  and  this  last  piece, 
His  son's  delinquency,  as  it  appears, 
Added  to  the  infirmities  of  age, 
Have  forced  him  to  his  bed. 
Any  such  exertion  on  his  part 
As  that  you  now  demand  of  him,  is  done 
On  penalty  of  health,  which  doth  forfend  it — 
Melmoth.     We'll  not  be  won  by  idle  sentiment! 

(To  Royce.)     What,  sir, 
Wouldst  teach  me  reason?    Wouldst  occupy 

my  throne? 

I'll  not  implore  that  I  may  be  obeyed! 
Go  at  once  and  bring  the  old  man  here. 
You  need  not  speak  again.     (Exeunt  Royce 

and  Dohlgrin.) 

Splinters.  Such  kindness  in  a  man  makes  record 
in  Heaven  and  jubilee  in  Hell.  The 
world's  grown  better,  la! 

Melmoth.     That  which  treason  loses  in  the  er 
ring, 
Loyalty  doth  gain.     St.  Francis,  stand  you 


ACT  I  33 

forth. 

(Francis  comes  forth). 
For  the  many  and  divers  services 
Well  and  worthily  conceived  the  state — 
As  too  most  faithfully  performed — 
In  consciousness  of  duty  and  allegiance, 
To  you  I  transfer  all  of  the  domains, 
Offices  and  titles  appurtenant 
To  the  late  Marquis  of  Lode,  Old  Kemiss' 

son; 

Whom,  in  his  stead, 
Here  publicly  I   do  create  you.     This  day 

hence 

You  come  into  possession  of  those  titles 
Now  observed. 

Berkeley.     (To  Brabant.)    Oh,  this  smells  rank! 
Splinters.     These  are  trappings  too  heavy  for  an 
honest  man,  but  they  are  high  strings  to 
hang  by.     King,  you  make  an  enemy  now. 
Gratitude  is  a  virtue  of   the  great;    the 
small  whistle  it,  like  an  old  song,  and  for 
get.     How's   your   load,    Marquis?      See 
to  bear  it  well.     Nor  for  a  "copia  ver- 
borum". 
St.  Francis.     My  most  dear  lord,  there  is  a  time 

when  words 

From  bountiness  of  gratitude,  run  over 
One  another  and  fail  their  utterance. 
Had  I  the  eloquence  to  plead  my  thanks, 
And  art  to  work  words  into  fashion, 
Yet  would  my  speech  be  all  too  insufficient 
To   do   my   feelings   justice.      Not   for   my 

words,    therefore, 
But    for    my    sentiments,    which    stay    still 


34        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

unconveyed, 

Believe  me  to  be  earnest  in  all  things 
That    point    to    Elsmere's   weal,    above    the 

thought 

Of  recompense. 
Splinters.     I'll  eat  grass  if  that  were  more  than 

words ! 

Melmoth.     Heh,     that    was    well    spoken,     sir. 
Let  us  trust  you'll  wear  your  offices 
With   the  same  dignity  that  marked  you 
of  late. 

Splinters.     Power  even  the  noblest  must  abuse; 

but  who's  noble  now  that  hath  an  honor? 

St.  Francis   (Kneeling).     I'm  ever  your  humble 

servant,  sir. 

Splinters.  Until  I  become  your  master,  sir.  De 
pend  on  it,  there's  no  fool  like  a  great  fool. 
Listen  to  wisdom,  King,  and  you'll  need 
no  ears. 

(Enter  Kemiss  between  Dohlgrin  and  Royce) 
There    comes    sincerity    which    is    too    old- 
fashioned  to  be  tolerated  here. 
Melmoth.     Here,  Kemiss. 
Kemiss.     My  Lord. 

Melmoth.     Stand  you  before  us  and  relate  your 
part. 

In  that  grave  cause  which  summons  you  now 
To  our  presence.  Of  your  son's  indiscretion 
You  know,  and  'tis  no  matter  to  persuade  me, 
Knew  too  well.  Your  sympathies  are  else- 
part 
Than  with  us.  That  need  not  deny,  old 

man. 
Yourself  reveal  the  truth. 


ACT  I  35 

Not  that  part  which  oft  contrives  to  shield 
The   wrong,    but    the   perfect   whole   of    it. 

(Pause) 

And  know,  if  you  will  not  tell  of  him 
That,  mirror-like,  reflects  on  you  and  all 
Your  strain  the  blemish  of  his  treason, 
Then  shall  I  hold  your  reluctance 
As  a  sign  of  acquiescence  in  his  deed ; 
Or  better  still,  if  this  have  more  the  truth, 
As   I   suspect, — of  participation. 

Splinters.     Angels  marry  him  or  he'll  bag  Old 
Scratch   himself. 

Kemiss.     See,  there  is  no  harder  stroke  than  this 
To  bend  me  sooner  to  my  grave.     He, 
Whom  we  ever  cherished  as  the  son  of  promise 
To  his  country  and  his  line,  has  cheated 
Expectation  of  her  due,  and  shown  himself 
Eccentric  in  life's  orbit. 
Yet  he  loved  the  Prince.    That  was  genuine; 
And  tended  stronger  than  his  pledge  to  serve 
His  King.     Then  let  us  say  that  love, 
Than  which  there  is  no  more  exalted  bond, 
Taught  him  a  greater  duty.    Which  way  he 

bent, 
Though  failing  of  allegiance,  'twas  done  in 

honour ; 
I  should  not  call  it  guilt. 

Mehnoth.     Had  you  then  no  knowledge  of  the 

thought 

Which  shaped  itself  so  ugly?  Come,  old  man, 
Confess,  and  I  shall  hold  thee  light. 

Kemiss.     I  knew  nothing,  sir. 

Melmoth.     Let   not   thy   tongue   slur  the   truth, 
'  Kemiss ! 


36        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Kemiss.     Nay,  King,  not  all  your  emphasis, 
Can  tempt  me  to  avow  to  that 
Which  I,  in  all  my  senses,  am  guiltless  of. 
If  thou  wilt  urge  me  to  the  crack,  why, — 
I  swear  to  God  my  innocence. 
Melmoth.     What,  so  old  and  yet  so  unreproved? 
Hast  no  respect  for  thy  gray  hairs 
Which  must  remind  thee  of  a  reckoning? 
Kemiss.      (To    the    Lords.)       Why    have    you 

brought  me  here,  my  lords? 
To  go  the  wrath  and  vengeance  of  this  mon 
arch? 

To  be  the  butt  and  shot  of  his  contumely? 
Once  again,  King,  I  cry  my  innocence. 
If  thou  thinkst  still  to  mock  at  my  exclaims, 
Oh  king,  thou  liest! 

Splinters.     Go  it,  old  boy!     Let  it  froth!     Con 
flict's  the  yeast  of  Life. 
Melmoth.     Hey,  what?    "Liest!" 

You've    urged    your   own    doom    upon   you, 

man! 
Your  words  have  put  you  beyond  the  reach 

or  hope 

Of  any  sympathy  that  could,  with  reason, 
Be  extended  you. 

Kemiss.     I  awaited  none.     Let  out  your  spleen! 
I  am  reconciled 

To  whatever  fate  you'll  measure  out  to  me. 
Melmoth.     Then,  old  Kemiss,  before  the  Court, 

I  say  it: 
You,   and   any  in   the  line   that  hold  your 

name, 

And  claim  your  lineage,  are  this  day  forth — 
And  'twill  be  futile  to  appeal  the  word — 


ACT  I  3? 

Banished  from  the  kingdom! 
Splinters.     Too    much    charity    ruins    the    giver. 
Smile  at  thy  release,  old  man.    The  rest's 
heaven. 

Dohlgrin.     Surely  this  is  not  in  seriousness  said? 
Royce.     Let  me  beseech  the  king  to  hear  me  once. 
Old    age   misses   art    to    fashion   things   un 
familiar. 
They  only  toy  with   truth   that  sphere   the 

tricks 
Of   life,    not    those    beyond    them.      Believe 

him,  my  lord. 
There's  that  much  truth  we  measure  by  his 

words, 

How  much  more  is  in  his  heart! 
Melmoth.     Enough !      Not   in   your  power   is  it 

to  affect  me! 
Nor    all    the   world,    should    it   combine    to 

plead 
For  him,  can  make  me  change,  or  teach  me 

clemency 

Where  I'm  not  so  leaned. 
Pellas.     My   gracious   Lord,   in   our   Duke's   be 

half— 
Melmoth.     What,    thou    too!       Now    then    be 

silent  all! 

And  let  no  voice  be  raised  above  mine  own 
In  this  decision  !    Who'll  presume  among  you 
Let  him  look  to  him ! 
De  Forest.     My  Lord — 
Melmoth.     Shut  your  damned  lips,  I'll  none  of 

you! 

Berkeley.     Yet,  my  Lord — 
Melmoth.     Did  I  not  say  enough? 


38        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dohlgrin.     Hear  me — 

Melmoth.      (Rising  from   the  throne.)      What! 
I'll  shake  you  like  a  rat! 

Now,  begone,  or  I'll  din  hell  into  you,  thou 

trash!  (Enter  Dolora.) 

Dolora.     Where  is  my  father?  (Goes  to  Kemiss.) 
Melmoth.      (Looking  after  Dolora.) 

Why  does  she  come  that  has  no  fitness  here? 

Of  all  earth's  creatures,  these  I  most  abhor. 

They  resolve  my  hate  into  a  steam  of  pas 
sion 

Which  leaves  me  weak.     Madam,   do  you 
know  your  place  ? — 

The   offence   of   entrance   pricks   us   not   so 
much 

As  the  knowing  'tis  forbidden  here,  and  yet 

Neglecting  it.     But  they  are  unreasoning, 

Strange  beings  of  a  still  unperished  age. 
Dolora.     Banished!      Banished! 
Melmoth.     Madam,  do  you  know  your  place? 
Dolora.     I   do  beseech  your  pardon,  my  lord — 
Melmoth.     There  is  no  pardon! 
Dolora.     I  crave  your  mercy,  then. 
Kemiss.     Do  not,  daughter.     There  is  one  that 

knows  it  not. 

Nor  plead   with   him ;    'tis  vain   to   seek   to 
change 

The  imperial  word.    What  he  has  spoken 

We  shall  with  resignation  follow  out. 

I  would  the  punishment  were  mine  alone, 

Not  thine  to  share  in. 
Dolora.     But  I  must  speak,  even  as  much  in  duty 

As  in  justice. 
Melmoth.     Who  is  it  that  must  speak? 


ACT  I  39 

Dolora.     My  gracious  Lord — 

Melmoth.     Nay,  nay,  who  is  it  that  must  speak? 

Dolora.     Most  grand  sovereign,  give  grace  unto 

my  speech 

And  suffer  me  but  these  poor  protestations. 
Melmoth.     Siren,    I'll    make   thy   song   uncited! 

I'll  stuff  up  mine  ears. 
Dolora.     Look  upon  the  old  man  thou  wouldst 

banish. 

His  white  hairs  plead  a  softer  attitude 
Than   that  of  severity.     Be  ruled  by  kind 
ness  ; 
And  if  you  have  not  that  especial  mercy  in 

you 

Then  reflect  it  from  those  radiant  about  you ; 
They  have   it   in   that   full   abundance,   you 

seem  not  to. 
But  I  am  confident, 
The  spirit   that   shines   from   the   eye   must 

betray 
The  goodness  of  the  heart,  tho  o'er  the  face 

is  set 

The  mask  of  stern  indifference. 
Be  ruled  by  kindness; 
Yet  towards  his  truth  be  stricter  than  thou 

wilt  ; 
Towards  his  words,  be  lenient;   towards  his 

years 

Be  thou  merciful.     Judge  him  evenly, 
For  I  know  not  when  my  father  's  love  for 

truth 

Was  less  than  love  for  life. 
Melmoth.     No!     No!     No!     I  have  spoken! 
Dolora.     Then  must  you  speak  again. 


40       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Melmoth.     Mock  not  at  me,  lady!     Mock  not 

at  me! 
Dolora.     There  is  no  judgment  that  is  absolute, 

Except  it  be  Above.    For  here  on  earth, 

Perfection  being  lost,  we  cannot  claim  it. 

Oh  bear  thine  office  well  and  worthily! 

Let  it  not  deceive  thee.     Let  not  thy  scep- 


The  temporary  grant  of  heaven — 

•Be  a  spear  to  hurt,  but  a  wand  to  heal. 

Thou  art  most  clear  when  thou  art  most  for 
bearing; 

I  kneel  in  supplication.     (Kneels.) 
Melmoth.     Away!    Away!     Come  not  near  me! 
Hold  aloof!     What,  Circe,  you  will  have 
me  tricked  ?  Feed  acorns  to  the  hogs,  I  am 
Ulysses,  I ! 

Dolora.     I  have  no  charm,  great  king,  no  talis 
man, 

To  persuade  thee  to  revoke  thy  word, 

But  the  truth  and  the  plea  for  mercy. 

Be  merciful,  oh  sire!    I  kiss  your  hand. 

Melmoth.     Drive    her   from    me,    Pellas!      Ho! 

Francis !    Guards !    Take  her  away ! 

(Rises  from  his  throne.)  She  has  come  here 
to  infuriate  my  passions — to  subvert  my 
reason.  Where  will  she  lead  me?  Where? 

To  the  white  wastes  of  the  moon  ?  Take  her 
away !  She  makes  me  mad !  Now  I  can 
not  speak  or  do.  Stand  away!  (to  Do 
lora)  Will  you  touch  me  with  your  lips 

again?     Ha!     You  make  me  mad! 
(Exit  Melmoth  followed  by  officers  and  several 
courtiers. ) 


ACT  I  41 

Courtiers     Mercy  on  us  all! 

Royce.     ( To  Dolora)  Madam,  I  take  this  well. 

Dolora.     Oh,  I  know  not  what  to  think.     I  have 

moved  him  so!     And  yet — 
St.  Francis.     I  have  great  fear  his  word  cannot  be 

changed.     His  majesty's  too  absolute. 
Pellets.     That's   to   be   discovered.       Meanwhile 

friends,  good  cheer; 
To-morrow  is  another  day. 

(Exeunt  all  but  Dohlgrin,  Berkeley,   and  Bra 
bant). 

Dohlgrin.     What  do  you  make  of  it  all,  gentle 
men? 
Brabant.     Of   Francis   and    his   newly-borrowed 

robes  ? 

Dohlgrin.     No — and  what  of  that? 
Brabant.     I  have  many  doubts  assailing  me  just 

now. 

Berkeley.     I'll   go  beyond   and  say  I   know  the 
truth.     Conviction  gives  character  to  my 
suspicions.    Francis  has  betrayed  Esmund ! 
Dohlgrin.     Can  we  be  sure  of  it? 
Berkeley.     Proof  before  conviction. 
Brabant.     What  is  to  be  done? 
Dohlgrin.     This:     Go  you,  my  lords,  and  discov 
er  the  retreat  of  our  fugitive  Prince.    Report  to  him 
the  state  of  all  that  has  transpired.     I'll  to  Royce 
and  learn  his  mind.    Together  we  will  to  Esmund. 
Now  friends,  farewell. 
Brabant.     Farewell. 

Dohlgrin.  When  you  do  pass  the  Tower,  forget 
not  to  deliver  this  to  Walden,  Lieutenant  of  the 
Tower,  who  is  one  of  us.  It  speaks  of  our  intent 
to  visit  Esmund  to-night,  incognito. 


42        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

(Dohlgrin  gives  note  to  Brabant). 

Berkeley.     Well ;     good-night. 

Dohlgrin.  Good  night.  Greet  our  Prince  in  all 
affection.  Bid  him  take  comfort.  When  once  our 
way  is  clear  from  out  this  maze,  we'll  strike,  and 
this  time  win  for  him,  by  God's  grace.  (They  go 
out). 

FORE-CURTAIN.       THE     SAME. 

Enter  St.  Francis  and  Toussan. 

St.  Francis.  We  have  manoeuvered  well,  Tous 
san. 

Toussan.  Merry,  my  lord,  we  have!  The  early 
tide  is  caught.  'Tis  now  but  to  trim  our  sails  and 
head  for  the  golden  fleece. 

St.  Francis.  Counsel,  Toussan,  Counsel!  The 
others  must  be  answered.  There's  Royce,  there's — 

Toussan.  And  they  shall  be  answered,  my  sweet 
lord!  Mark  me:  We  must  play  both  hands  as  we 
have  never  played  them  before.  Yet  if  we  are  trapped, 
merry,  my  sweet  lord,  we'll  not  be  scotched.  To 
trip  us  on  one  leg  is  to  make  us  stand  firmer  on  the 
other.  Go  to  them  to-night.  You'll  find  them  in 
the  Tower  with  Esmund  or  I'll  take  to  writing 
Scriptures. 

St.  Francis.  "Go  to  them!"  How,  Toussan,  "go 
to  them?" 

Toussan.  That's  the  logic.  That  will  be  the 
smart  thing.  That  will  be  the — 

St.  Francis.     But,  "go  to  them!" 

Toussan.  Go  to!  Go  to  them.  That's  my  ex 
pression.  Ay,  go  to  them.  Thou'lt  cozen  them  by 
thy  appearance  amongst  them  and  thou'lt  bait  them 


ACT  I 


43 


by  thy  easy  manner.     Come,  I'll  teach  thee  what. 
Curtain 

SCENE  3 — Room  in  the  Castle. 


Enter  Servant  to  Dolora. 
Well,  is  his  majesty  about? 

He  is,  madam,  in  his  orchard. 
Are   any  with  him? 

None. 

Is  it  his  wont  to  keep  him   there 


Ay,    madam,    the    length    of   an    half- 


Dolora. 

Servant. 

Dolora. 

Servant. 

Dolora.  Is  it  his  wont  to  keep  him  there  this 
time  ? 

Servant. 
hour. 

Dolora.     Then  shall  I  seek  him  in  the  palace. 

For  this  I  am  much  beholden  unto  you.  (Servant 
goes.) — Pray  you,  a  while.  Didst  take  in  his  mien? 

Servant.  Not  surely,  madam.  Yet,  by  the  heav 
iness  of  his  glance,  methinks  he  has  missed  the 
night. 

Dolora.     Indeed!     Then  he  was  fretful? 

Servant.     No — 

Dolora.     Untoward? 

Servant.     Neither;     he     was     more — abstracted. 
(Enter    Cedrielle.) 

Dolora.     I  thank  you,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Cedrielle.  Astir  so  early,  madam?  (Exit  Ser 
vant.) 

Dolora.     Could  I  sleep,  I  were  not  surely. 

Cedrielle.  And  were  you  asleep  you  could  not 
truly.  But,  madam,  your  mirror  is  out  with  you 
this  morning.  You  look  weary.  (Approaching  her.) 
Nay,  you  have  not  slept! 

Dolora,     To  the  heart  of  many  cares  there  is  no 


44        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

rest.  And  when  night  disjoins  itself  from  sleep, 
nature's  assailed. 

Cedrielle.  In  all  good  faith,  sweet  madam,  you 
do  yourself  hurt  to  let  things  take  hold  on  you  so. 

Dolora.  When  these  sad  matters  shall  adjust 
themselves,  I'll  be  myself  again.  But,  Cedrielle, 
make  ready  my  attire  and  spare  no  effort  to  see  me 
pleasing  fair.  I  must  to  the  king. 

Cedrielle.     What,  madam,  now? 

Dolora.  Now — with  half  the  day  given  over  to 
preparation. 

Cedrielle.     You  jest  seriously,  madam. 

Dolora.  Ah,  Cedrielle,  there  is  no  time  more 
darkling  than  the  present.  Come. 

Cedrielle.  We'll  see  our  duty  done.  You  can 
not  want  assurance;  your  purpose  itself  must  make 
you  rich  with  it. 

Dolora.     Heaven  intercede  for  us. 

Cedrielle.     Ay,  madam.     (They  go  out.} 

SCENE  4 — Same  as  Scene  I. 

Traders,  Merchants,  Poets,  Painters,  Men  of 
Profession  discovered  in  groups,  awaiting  Melmoth. 
Enter  Jeweler. 

Jeweler.  Masters,  good  fortune.  His  majesty 
shall  attend  us  presently.  He  is  even  now  without. 

Merchant.  Gentlemen,  your  good  will.  My 
business  with  the  king  is  of  such  immediate  na 
ture,  it  begs  special  address. 

Second  Merchant.  By  your  leave,  dear  sir,  I 
have  tarried  here — 

Third  Merchant.  Your  pardon  both ;  my  mat 
ter  is  urgent.  Allow  me  priority,  (All  begin  press- 


ACT  I  45 

ing  forward.) 

Some.     Nay,  press  not  so  upon  us. 
Merchant.     Gentlemen,  see  to  your  demeanor. 
Others.     We  know  our  place,  sir. 
(Enter  Melmoth,  St.  Francis,  Splinters,   Cour 
tiers  and  retainers.) 

Jeweler.      (Kneeling.)      My  gracious  lord — 
First  Merchant.      (Kneeling.)      Most  high  sov 
ereign — 

Second  Merchant.      (Kneeling.)  My  royal  liege! 
St.  Francis.     Make  room ;  stand  away ! 
Splinters.     Go   to  the  rear,   chapmen,  the   fore 
castle's  swamped. 
Melmoth.     They  crowd  about  me  like  bees  about 

the  promise  of  a  flower. 
Francis,  we'll  hear  you  anon.      (To  Mer 
chants.) 
Give  space,  will  you?   (  To  Courtiers.)  My 

lords,  be  greeted. 
If  there  is  no  favor  to  seek  of  me  to-day, 

or  yours  to  give,  indulge  me  here. 
De  Forest.     The  favor,  my  lord,  is  in  your  com 
pany.     Indeed,  'tis  all — 
Melmoth.      (As  many  do  him  homage.)     Did  I 

not  swear  against  it — 

Flaunt  not  your  periwigs  in  my  face!   Who 
bends  the  knee's  a  slave!     Up,  I  say!    Or 
shall  I  step  upon  you?     (Merchants  rise.) 
f  Splinters.     Step  upon  him,  King,  and  thou'lt  exalt 
him ;  or  spit  upon  him  and  thou'lt  make  a  braggart 
of  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life ;  he'll  write  thy  mem 
oirs  for  it,  with  a  preface.     (Melmoth  is  seated.) 
First  Jeweler.     I  claim  your  patience,  my  liege. 
Splinters.     You  mean  his  gold. 


46        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

First   Jeweler.     This    gem,    my   lord,    prefer   to 

gaze  upon  it; 

It  boasts  of  history  as  varied  as  the  nations. 
It  was  the  crown- jewel — 

Second  Jeweler.     This,  my  lord,  you  sought  for. 
See,  it  is  as  bright  as  the  eye  of  the  Prophet ! 
It  teaches  splendor  to  trie  sun. 
No  star  of  heaven  shines  with  this  undecked. 
It  was  stolen  from  the  caves  of  the  giddy  sea 
Beyond  the  zone.     Accept  it,  your  grace. 
Melmoth.     What  value  do  you  set  upon  this? 
Second  Jeweler.     Ten  thousand  liras,  most — 
Melmoth.     Ten  thousand  liras!     By  Mammon, 
royal  figures  truly!    And  this?      (Regard 
ing  the  other  gem.} 

First  Jeweler.  His  majesty  may  himself  de 
termine. 

Splinters.  Nothing  then,  and  farewell.  Fools 
buy  and  ninnies  sell — that's  trade.  (Exit 
Splinters.) 

Melmoth.     As  trafficers,  you  appraise  your  cus 
toms  well. 
(Holding  up  gem.)      How  many  centuries 

were  lost  in  thy  pursuit, 
Thou  mean  object  of  madness  and  longing! 
I  have  thee  now.    What  is  thy  worth  ?    And 

thine?     (Regarding  other  gems.) 
Ten  thousand  lives?     Or  more?    Thou  art 

history ! 

Intellectual  man,  that  lets  this  be  his  chron 
icler! 

Most  valuable  wert  thou  when  thou  didst  lie 
Concealed  beneath  the  waves,  far  from  the 
delving 


ACT  I  47 

And  omnivorous  eye  of  man! — 
Who's  the  fool  that  would  possess  thee  now? 
Take  it — thou!        (Hands  it  to  a  courtier.) 
Sell  it  to  the  honest  men. 
Send  it  on  its  round  once  more  and  groan 
At  the  wake  of  ruin  it  leaves  behind  it. 
Merchants.     Here,  my  lord — 
Second  Merchant-     This,  my  gracious — 
Third  Merchant.     Will  you  look  upon  this — ? 
(Each  Merchant  offers  his  special  ware.) 
Melmoth.      ( To    the    Painter,    ignoring    Mer 
chants.)     What's  that  you  have  there? 
Whose  lily  face  is  this! 

(Painter  has  exposed  painting  of  Melmoth.) 
Painter.     My  lord;  good,  my  lord — 
Melmoth.     False  protestor  of  thine  art, — 
Painter.     Hear  me,  sire — 
Melmoth.     My   spirit's   writ   upon   my   face! — 

peace ! 

Where's  the  greedy  eye,  the  sensuous  mouth ; 
The  lines  of  prejudice,  pride,  and  scorn 
That  show  up  the  imperfections  of  my  soul  ? 
Peace !  Where  are  they  ?  Art  thou  an  artist  ? 
Canst  copy  nature  and  paint  a  naked  wall? 
Thou  canst  not,  flatterer;  thou  canst  not, 

tradesman ; 

Thou  canst  not  do  so  simple  thing  as  that 
Till  thou  hast  separated  man  from  man, 
And  earth  from  heaven! 

(Painter  retires.) 
Poet.     Magnanimous  sire! 

Melmoth.  Ah!  What  wouldst  thou,  thou  care 
worn  figure  of  a  man?  Art  thou  a  poet?  Or  art 
thou  merely  clinging  to  the  tail  of  Pegasus?  Come, 


48        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

show  thy  talent.  Rhyme  me  a  jingle  on  nothing. 
No?  Speak.  (Poet  pauses.)  Is  it  so  difficult  then? 
You  do  this  days  out  of  the  week  and  your  dreams 
are  many  times  nothing.  Rhyme  me  a  jingle  on 
something.  That's  a  task  for  a  poet!  Or  midway 
between  something  and  nothing;  rhyme  me  anything. 
What,  not  anything?  Not  something?  Not  even 
nothing? 

Poet.     Be  graciously  disposed,  my  lord.    Here  is 

that  which  Fame 

On  its  tip-toe  waits  to  acknowledge. 
Thine's  the  first  eye  that's  given  to  linger 

over 
And  adorn  it.     (Proffers  the  Manuscript.) 

Melmoth.  (Regarding  Manuscript.)  "The 
Pleasures  of  Life."  A  fable,  eh,  a  fable?  Ha!— ha! 
Poor  man,  what  dreams  here  are  dreamed  in  vain! 
Now  thou  hast  a  conscience  to  plague  thee,  for 
thou  hast  created, — and  we  create  in  order  to  de 
stroy  !  Do  you  not  know  that  thus  has  God,  self-will 
ed,  in  his  creation  sinned?  I'll  save  thee,  poet,  the 
sadness  of  knowing  it  will  perish.  ( Tears  manu 
script.) 

Poet.  Oh,  spare  it,  great  Prince!  (Kneeling.) 
The  rose  of  my  dearest  fancy!  The  extreme  effort 
of  my  genius!  The  work  of  twenty  years!  (Pick 
ing  up  fragments.)  Oh,  it  is  ruined,  ruined! 

Melmoth.  Fool,  smile  rather  and  be  contented. 
Take  thy  measure  of  gold  and  fare  thee  well.  What 
in  this  world  is  lasting?  Know  you  not  that  all 
must  pass  away  like  a  season?  Time,  himself,  the 
great  eternal  monarch  of  decay,  wrecks  his  own 
kingdom!  How  long  thinkst  thou  to  have  lived? 
An  hundred  years?  Five  hundred  years?  A  thou- 


ACT  I  49 

sand  years?    Others  will  rise  to  smile  at  your  cru 
dities;   to  wonder  at  your  innocence;   to  triumph  at 
your  failure;  and  raise  alike  an  unendurable  man 
sion,  upon  the  ashes  of  your  fondest  dreams!     (Mer 
chants  begin  offering  their  wares  again.)     Enough! 
Enough!    Depart!     (They  begin  to  go  out.) 
Nearness  of  all  great  objects  of  desire 
Makes  them  trifling. 

To  know  that  every  mortal  thing's  available 
Satisfies  the  craving  for  it. 
What  is  here  on  earth  to  be  desired? 
Bring  me  that  which  cannot  be  acquired! 
(To  Courtiers.)     For  a  while,  my  lords,  eh? 
(Exeunt  all  but  Melmoth  and  St.  Francis.) 
St.  Francis.     Well  now,  my  lord,  will  you  hear 
me  further?—     (Enter  Pellas.) 

Melmoth.  Stay.  We'll  hear  your  father  first. 
What  is  it,  Pellas? 

Pellas.  My  lord,  the  ambassadors  from  Austria 
are  most  eager  to  commend  themselves  to  your  grace. 
Melmoth.  What's  their  commission?  Tis  often 
trifles  fret  our  weary  pillow  when  matters  signal  of 
high  consequence  find  us  secure  in  unconcerned  re 
pose. 

Pellas.     Immediate  trifles,   my  liege,  take  their 
precedence  over  gravest  issues,  more  removed. 
Melmoth.     Therein   are   you   wrong,   old   man. 
Pellas.     I  beg— 

Melmoth.  Come,  we'll  not  argue.  What  have 
my  lords  from  Austria  to  say? 

Pellas.  In  eager  application  of  our  mutual  in 
terest,  they  would  find  favor  with  his  majesty  to 
solicit  a  renewal  of  the  treaty  made  nine  years  back 
and  binding  yet  some  time.  And  too,  they  seek  the 


50        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

countenance  of  Elsmere  in  their  embroil  with  the 
nations  of  the  north. 

Melmoth.  Heh,  each  would  find  a  guardian 
goose-wing  for  his  head ! 

Pellas.  Good,  my  lord,  I  pray  you  give  them  pa 
tient  audience,  as  all  matters  indicate  to  Elsmere's 
weal. 

Melmoth.     Elsmere!     The  name  is  like  a  knell! 
'Tis  hung  about  my  neck  to  weary  me! 
Pellas.     How,  my  lord? 

Melmoth.  (Abstracted)  I  could  have  done  with 
out  it,  but  that  he  whose  purposes  are  as  fixed  as  the 
gates  of  Hell,  and  as  forbidding,  may  resolve  an  end. 
But  I'll  not  sleep.  He'll  catch  me  hundred-eyed, 
and  every  eye  awake. 

Pellas.     My  gracious  lord — 
Melmoth.     What,  Pellas!    I'll  not  receive  them! 
Pellas.     But  the  state,  my  lord ! 
Melmoth.     What  of  that? 

Pellas.  Think  on  it,  my  lord.  Here  in  this  liv 
ing  world,  the  merest  act  drags  with  it  a  lengthening 
chain  of  consequences.  And  when  the  happiness 
of  a  nation  is  suspended  in  the  balance  of  one  man's 
"yea"  or  "nay" — pardon,  my  lord, — that  one  should 
be  more  centred  in  his  trust.  Once  more,  my  liege, 
I  do  entreat  you,  think  upon  the  state. 
Melmoth.  Pellas,  hear  me: 

Kings  and  empires,  men  and  purposes, 
Are  as  the  fashions  which  I  contemplate, 
Out  of  season.    These  royal  messengers 
On  something  bent,  have  teased  me  out  of 

humor. 

Yet  we'll  endure  them  for  the  part  we  play ; 
As  many  men  make  forfeit  of  the  'would', 


ACT  I  51 

When  to  the  'must'  they  bring  self-sacrifice, 
Cheating  them  both. — Bid  them  to  my  closet, 

Pellas; 
I'll  attend  them  presently. 

Pellas.     Thank  you,  my  lord.     (Exit  Pellas.) 

St.  Francis.     Well,  my  lord? 

Melmoth.     Well? 

St.  Francis.     Well?— 

Melmoth.     You  tell  me  so. 

St.  Francis.  'Tis  so,  'tis  so,  my  lord!  Believe 
me,  for  thine  own  use,  I  tell  thee  so.  Esmund  was 
but  the  small  finger  of  the  conspiracy;  be  sure,  for 
I  know  it.  And  besides,  the  hand's  already  healed 
and  again  feeling  for  the  sceptre. 

Melmoth.     Oh,  pish ! 

St.  Francis.     Oh,  pish ! 

Melmoth.     What's  that? 

St.  Francis.     Nothing — sir. 

Melmoth.  Nothing? — Nothing.  (Melmoth 
walks  off.) 

St.  Francis.  Oh,  let  me  be  believed!  Am  I  un 
deserving  of  good  faith?  Wherein,  my  king,  have 
I  merited  your  displeasure? 

Melmoth  (indifferently).     What  do  you  tell  me ? 

St.  Francis.  I  tell,  my  lord,  what's  stale,  eh? 
What's  without  ground,  without  truth?  I  tell  thee 
all  that! 

Melmoth.     Francis,  what  will  you  have? 

St.  Francis.  My  lord's  own  caution  for  himself. 
To  be  ruler  now  is  to  have  the  sword  of  Damocles 
suspended  above  him.  Had  I  the  voice  and  power 
to  enforce  it,  I'd  well  know  whom,  and  how  soon, 
to  silence. 

Melmoth.     Doubtless,  doubtless.     But  tell  me,  is 


52       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

it  immediate, — the  danger,  is  it  immediate? 

St.  Francis.     Not  quite,  my  lord. 

Melmoth.     Have  they  planned  an  action? 

St.  Francis.     No,  my  lord,  but — 

Melmoth.     Are  their  armies  consorted? 

St.  Francis.     They  are  not,  my  lord? 

Melmoth.  (Rising  in  temper.)  Is  then  the 
Prince  enforced,  the  spirit  general,  the  thing  at  all? 

St.  Francis.     Oh,  my  king — 

Melmoth.  (Impatiently.)  I  tell  thee  what, 
Francis,  we'll  speak  of  this  again.  That  were  best. 

St.  Francis.     I  marvel  much — 

Melmoth.     (Fiercely.)     Nay,  that  were  best. 

St.  Francis.     Ay,  my  lord,  but — 

Melmoth.  I  tell  thee,  that  were  best!  (Exit 
Francis}.  (Enter  Servant). 

Servant.     Your  Majesty. 

Melmoth.     What,  knave? 

Servant.  My  liege,  the  lady  Dolora  who  attends 
without,  bade  me  commend  her  thus  to  your  grace: 
your  word  of  yesterday  with  special  drift  of  the 
banishment  of  the  duke,  her  father,  having  had  no 
determinate  conclusion,  she  begs  his  majesty — 

Melmoth.  I  have  no  grant  to  make!  Tell  her 
"No!"  I  will  not  speak  to  her;  (aside)  I  dare 
not,  lest  her  firmness  force  mine  to  give  way.  ( To 
servant)  Slave,  why  do  you  linger?  Did  I  not  say — 

Servant.  What,  my  lord?  I  do  not  know  your 
answer. 

Melmoth.     The  villain  perplexes  me!     Tell  her 

—  (Hesitates.) 
You  say  she  waits  without  ? 

Servant.     Ay. 

Melmoth.     There,   there,   I   know  not  what  to 


ACT  I  $3 

say!     (Pauses.) 

Go,  bid  her  enter.   (Exit  Servant.) 
I'll  emphasize  the  letter  of  my  charge; 
Yet  had  I  not  spoken  it,  I  would  not  now. 
But  having, — need  remain.     They  shall  be 

banished ; 

She  with  all  the  rest,  guilty  or  guiltless. 
'Tis  more  regard  for  safety,  than  desire 
Which  hurries  me  on   to  this  extremity  of 

action. 

I  must  be  cruel,  that  the  spectre  of  my  weak 
er  self 
May  not  point  at  me,  accusingly.      (Enter 

Dolor  a.) 

Madam, — you  are  careless  of  the  hour. 
Dolor  a.     I  am  sorry,  my  lord. 
Melmoth.     Hum. 

Dolor  a.  Shall  I  leave  his  Majesty  for  a  better 
while  when  time  shall  be  less  his  concern  ? 

Melmoth.  Heh?  I  like  that!  You  have  come, 
madam,  have  you  not?  And  to  your  coming  there's 
a  purpose.  What  sham  policy  is  it  then,  that  you  ask 
to  leave  ? 

Dolora.     Believe  me,  my  lord,  to  be  sincere.     If  it 
please  you  to  have  me  go,  however  my  purpose  be 
direct  and  importunate,  I'll  not  remain  to  vex  you. 
Melmoth.     What  is  your  business  with  me  ? 
Dolora.     You  know  right  well,  my  lord.    .    .    . 
Melmoth.     I  know  nothing     .     .     .     nothing     . 
.     .     Well?     Now  what?     Ha!     Ha! 
Dolora.     Oh,  my  lord,  that's  not  possible.     You 
cannot  have  so  soon  forgot.     Nor  is  it  well  to  as 
sume  that  in  so  light  a  manner  you  have  dismissed 
from  your  mind,  the  strength  and  consequence  of 


54       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

your  words  that  have  made  us  night-weary  and 
heart-sore.  Yesterday  I  could  not  be  sure  that  you 
had  meant  for  the  decree  to  be  recalled.  Today  I 
come  to  be  told;  to  know  whether  you  have  nobly 
re-considered,  or  otherwise  sustained  your  judg 
ment.  What  word  shall  it  be  given  me  to  hear? 

Melmoth.     I  have,  madam. 

Dolora.     'Have,'  what?    Oh,  what,  my  lord? 

Melmoth.  What?  What?  I  say  I  have.  That 
is  sufficient. 

Dolora.  Realized  how  largely  it  would  wrong 
us,  and  wrong  yourself?  Say  it  is  so.  Say  "ay",  my 
lord,  and  you  will  occasion  more  happiness  by  that 
word,  than  grief  by  the  other.  (Approaching  him.) 
'Twill  be  double  atonement.  Say  "ay."  (Melmoth 
regards  her  blankly.) 

Melmoth.  I  do  not  know — I  cannot — my  senses 
are  asleep — 

Dolora.     Melmoth! 

Melmoth.  And  I  say  it.  Ha!  Ha!  Let  the 
winds  bruit  my  weakness  about  the  earth;  I  change 
my  oath  at  a  woman's  bidding. 

Dolora.     Thanks;   thanks. 

Melmoth.  And  let  the  Kingdom  of  my  Soul- 
Might  confess  to  the  beginning  of  its  decline.  Oh, 
why  have  you  come  at  all,  Dolora?  You  must  tell 
me  that!  (Grasps  her  hand.)  Are  you  conspired 
with  the  genius  of  the  world  ?  Are  you  sent  in  this 
unlikely  form  to  bewilder  me  in  my  effort;  to  trip 
me  in  the  great  event,  and  make  me  beware  thee? 
Why  have  you  come? 

Dolora.     My  lord — 

Melmoth.  Why  have  you  come?  To  study  out 
my  inabilities,  and  so  subvert  me?  Ha? 


ACT  I  55 

Dolor  a.     My  father — 

Melmoth.     Nay,    why    have   you    come?      Con 
fess  it  to  me. — 
Oh,   this  poisons  all  too  soon,   and   all  too 

sure, 
The  wholesomeness  of  thought.     This  frets 

the  mind 

Out  of  its  velvet  security, 
Choking  it  full  of  raw  and  dreary  doubts. 
Leave   me   now.     Your  presence  is  tortur 
ing. 

I  cannot  tell  what  it  is,  or  what 
It  may  arrive  to,  but  portentous 
It  must  be.     I  have  yielded  to  you — that's 

wearying. 
What   rare   charm   are   you  weaving  about 

me? 

Better  go.     Ay,  go.  Go,  Dolora. 
Dolora.     I  go,  Melmoth.     Forgive  me.     I  will 
not    weary    you.      Farewell.      You    will.     .     . 
Melmoth.     .     .     .     you  will  not  think  of  me,  nor 
shall  I  haunt  you — in  your — dreams.      (Going.) 

Melmoth.     Ha!   what   do  you   say?     What   dp 
you  say,  Dolora? 

Dolora.     Even,   Melmoth,  even — as  you — haunt 
mine. 

(Melmoth  staggers  as  a  terrible  truth  dawns  upon 
him.) 

Curtain 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I — Grounds  leading  to  the  Palace.  Palace 
is  seen  in  the  background,  half  hidden  by  tall  trees 
and  luxuriant  plants.  Marble  seats  between  the 
trees  are  found  along  the  path.  Statuaries.  Fan- 
tastiques. 

Time — Late  in  the  afternoon.  Grows  darker  as 
scene  progresses. 

Discovered:     Splinters  and  Mickle. 

Mickle.     I'm  sorry,   I'm  sorry. 

Splinters.  Mickle,  if  thou'lt  take  the  earnest 
judgment  of  a  friend,  thou'rt  beautiful.  Thy  per 
son  may  be  wanting  of  the  fine  points  of  symmetry, 
but  its  the  totality,  Mickle,  the  totality,  and  there's 
the  difference.  But,  put  powder  on  your  nose  and 
thou'lt  be  more  fair.  The  world  cares  not  so  much 
for  what  thou  art,  as  for  what  thou  seemest.  There 
fore,  put  powder  on  your  nose.  The  ladies  of  the 
court  all  do  it,  and  they  are  counted  fine.  Even 
though,  in  the  present  hub,  virtue  is  not  so  much 
honored,  as  honorable,  I  tell  thee,  Mickle,  on  the 
score  of  morality,  rather  be  spouseless  than  spouse- 
ful ;  rather  the  butt  of  all  men's  scorn,  than  the  ob 
ject  of  one  man's  lust.  But  an  thou  wilt,  put 
powder  on  your  nose,  and  hold  it  high.  Pretention 
is  oft  crown'd  with  approval,  and  'tis  an  easy 
thing  to  wheedle  the  world  for  it  will  be  wheedled. 
Now,  farewell.  There  come  the  masters  of  little 
issue.  Be  satisfied,  Mickle,  there's  security  in  pov 
erty;  greatness  in  humility.  Farewell  Mickle.  Fare 
well  in  haste.  (Exit  Mickle.) 

56 


ACT  II  57 

Enter  Courtiers 

De  Forest.     Good  even,  fool. 

Splinters.     Good  even,  fool. 

De  Forest.  Where's  my  Lord  Chamberlain, 
fool? 

Splinters.     What's  your  trade  with  him,  fool? 

De  Forest.  To  hang  all  the  fools  in  the  king 
dom. 

Splinters.  Then  fly  to  save  your  neck,  sir,  for 
thou'lt  be  the  first  to  kick  from  a  halter.  But 
verily,  to  find  him,  best  remain  here.  He  is  with 
his  son,  sirs. 

Steele.     St.  Francis? 

Splinters.  So  do  men  call  him;  others  call  him 
the  Marquis  of  Lode. 

Edwin.     A  worthy  gentleman. 

Splinters.  As  my  mistress  Lady  Finger  is  a 
worthy  dame.  He's  a  Turk,  he's  a  weasel,  he's 
a  leech. 

De  Forest.     How  a  Turk? 

Edwin.     Why  a  weasel? 

Steele.     Wherefore  a  leech? 

Splinters.  Nay,  now  that  you  question  it,  I  am 
certain  of  it.  A  thousand  times  a  Turk,  a  weasel 
and  a  leech ;  and  between  the  hearing  and  the  telling 
he  must  be  an  equivocating  drag  horse  to  span  him 
self  into  such  a  load.  And  my  grandam  used  to  tell 
me,  when  I  was  in  the  vegetable  age  of  my  wit, 
that  another's  load  is  heaviest  and  drags  soonest 
to  hell.  And  this  marquis  being,  as  I  said,  a  Turk, 
a  weasel,  and  a  leech,  will  tumble  to  it  faster  than 
a  friar  to  a  frail  sister. 

Edwin.     What  dost  thou  know  of  such  matters? 

Splinters.     Knowing,  I'll  not  tell  you. 


58        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Edwin.     Then  art  thou  a  lying  rascal. 
Splinters.    Then  art  thou  a  knave;  a  scurvy  plack 
et-player;    a   hirsuite,    crooked,    black-livered,    foul- 
mouthed,  leather-faced  villain!     If  that  were'nt  his 
lordship  entering  I'd  tell  thee  what  thou  art. 

(Exit.) 

Enter  Pellas  and  St.  Francis,  and  Courtiers  who 
pass  over  the  stage. 

De  Forest.  My  lord,  you  desired  to  see  us? 
Pellas.  Well  arrived,  gentlemen,  we  have  need 
of  you.  The  envoys  from  the  several  provinces 
leave  tomorrow  by  sunrise.  Be  pleased  to  accept 
the  commission  of  their  escort  and  see  them  safely 
conveyed. 

De  Forest.     Thanks,  my  lord,  our  duty  shall  be 
faithfully   performed. 

Pellas.     Be  courteous,   sirs,   above  the  discretion 
of  silence,  but  not  too  forward  in  matters  of  the 
state.      You    understand. 
De  Forest.     We  do. 

Pellas.     Then,  good-night.      (Exeunt  courtiers.) 
Francis,  I  cared  not  give  exception  to  your 

mien 

Within  the  lords'  particularity. 
Speak  then ;    you  have  grown  of  late, 
So  lost  in  speculation  of  yourself; 
So  altered  in  your  bearing  as  in  glance, 
That  I  can  scarce  remind  you  as  the  same 
Of  but  a  fortnight  past.     Unfold  yourself, 

sir; 

You  have  no  reason  to  lock  your  motives 
From  my  better  gaze. 

St.  Francis.     I   have  none.     If  you've  remarked 
me  so 


ACT  II  59 

You  are  not  all  deceived.    There  are  things, 

sire, 
Which   carry   us   beyond   the   limits   of   the 

moment 
However    instant,    and    leave    us    stranded 

there. 

So  is  it  presently  with  me. 
And  being  so,  I  cannot  find  myself 
Able   against  it.     If  you   would   know   the 

cause, 

Then  it  is  that  great  one  which  conspires 
The  whole  world  into  confederacy. 
Pellas.     I  understand  you.     Nor  does  what  you 

say 

Break  in  on  me  unexpectedly. 
Yet  it  grieves  me,  sir, 

That  tho'  your  cause  be  honorable  enough 
I  yet  must  conjure  you, 
If  you  would  still  maintain  your  place  and 

power, 

Honor  and  regard  at  home  and  abroad, 
And  still  enjoy  the  favor  of  the  King, — 
Fling  away  thy  love, — forget  Dolora. 
Leave  her  to  the  purposes  of  Melmoth. 
He  loves  her. 

And  that  you  may  be  certain  of  this  last 
Mine  eyes  held  proof  enough.     As  for  you, 

Francis, 

You  can  best  be  noble  thru  great  sacrifice; 
For  love  that  denies  itself,  is  love  indeed. 
St.  Francis.     My  sire,  you  do  mistake  my  habit. 
Not  for  nothing  have  I  attained  this  hour, 
That  art  and  effort  staked  in  fortune's  lot 
tery 


60        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Should  draw  a  blank.     Nor  shall  I 
So  easily  throw  up  my  ambition 
Because  you  would  deny  it  me  in  this. 
Pellas.     I  deny!     Hear!     Hear! 
St.  Francis.     Why  should  I  to  the  preference  of 

Melmoth 

Yield  this  chance-hope  of  my  happiness? 
Much  would  I  do  for  him,  but  hardly  the 

over-much 

Which  serves  unhappiness  to  good  intent. 
You  argue  he  is  king  and  I  his  vassal, 
And   therefore  should   distress  my  own  de 
sires  ; 
But  love,  like  death,  ignores  the  grades  of 

rank ; 

That's  satisfaction. 
Nay,  sire,  I  will  go  as  I  have  gone 
And  do  what  I  will  do,  regardless  of  all. 
Pellas.      (irritated.)  Thou  art  rash,  Francis;  per 
haps  a  fool.     These  words, 
In  the  emphasis  of  their  utterance  and  mean 
ing, 

Can  portend  no  good.     'Tis  not  a  virtue 
To  cross  his  majesty,  I  tell  you, 
For  he  is  like  a  Cerberus  asleep 
Only    in    that    his    eyes    are    shut.       But, 

enough ! 

I  leave  you  to  your  own  purposes. 
Revolve  yet  in  your  mind  my  counsel. 
Even  do  you  not  respect  it,  give  it  heed. 
If  you  would  sacrifice  all  which  is 
And  all  which  may  be  for  the  following 
Of  a  mad  fancy,  do  forget  my  warning, 
And  take  my  words  as  the  senseless  gabble 


ACT  II  61 

Of  a  dotard.  (Exit.) 

St.  Francis.     Oh,  I  know  it  well,  this  world  of 

dominoes ! 
I've  discovered   it  quite  in  time  to  set  me 

smooth. 

Nor  need  one  play  it  fair  to  win  it  wisely. 
'Tis   a  chance   game   where   the   least   may 

gain  the  most; 
An  exchange,  a  fortune  store, 
Where  circumvention   and   cunning  draw 
The    better    lot. — Farewell,     father;    your 

morals 

Have  made  you  what  you  are;  mine,  what 
I  shall  be. 

(Enter   Cedrielle) 

Cedrielle? 

Cedrielle.     Dear  sir,  has  my  mistress  gone  this 
way? 

St.  Francis.     No,  sweet;    what  is  the  matter  of 
your  haste? 

Cedrielle.     I  bring  her  news  from  the  physician. 
St.  Francis.     Is  it  immediate? 
Cedrielle.     I   don't  know. 
St.  Francis.     The  Duke,  her  father,  is  well? 
Cedrille.     Little  better,  my  lord. 
St.  Francis.     Then  tarry,  sweet  lady.     Ill  news 
together  with  its  bearer  is  hardly  ever  welcome. 

Cedrielle.     Truly,  my  lord,  it  is  as  you  say.  But, 
nevertheless,  I  must  hurry. 

St.  Francis.     Go  then,  go  then,  you  are  unkind. 
Cedrielle.     (Hesitating.)    Unkind,  my  lord ?  Un 
kind? 

St.  Francis.     Will  you  not  stay  then? 
Cedrielle.     If  it  is  your  wish. 


62        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

St.  Francis.     My  pleasure.     Hark,  Cedrielle. 

Cedrielle.  What,  my  lord?  (She  comes  for 
ward.  ) 

St.  Francis.  Dost  thou  value  thy  qualities  in  the 
measure  of  their  worth?  » 

Cedrielle.     Ay;    and  therefore  little. 

St.  Francis.  Tell  me,  sweet,  hast  ever  paid  thy 
mirror  the  tribute  it  deserves? 

Cedrielle.  I've  scolded  it;  I've  mocked  at  it;  I've 
stuck  out  my  tongue  at  it,  often  enough,  like  this, 
see,  my  lord  ? 

St.  Francis.  Pretty  tongue  that  speaks  such  pret 
ty  things.  Let  me  be  thy  mirror,  Cedrielle. 

Cedrielle.  Nay,  then  you'll  cast  reflections  on 
me  too  often. 

St.  Francis.  Happy  reflections,  Cedrielle.  Tell 
me  something. 

Cedrielle.     What  shall  I  say? 

St.  Francis.  Anything  thy  precious  lips  would 
feign.  Something  sweet,  something  pretty,  some 
thing  like  thyself. 

Cedrielle.      (Coquettishly.)      I   don't  know. 

St.  Francis.  (Approaches  her.)  Hark  then, 
thou. 

Cedrielle.     I  do,  my  lord. 

St.  Francis.  Once,  in  the  country  of  the  Otto 
mans,  I  stood  upon  a  pretty  bank  that  overhangs 
the  Sainted  Galilee — 

Cedrielle.     Yes—? 

St.  Francis.  And  even  as  I  gazed  there  rose 
above  the  surfar"  of  the  charmed  waters,  like  a 
vision  in  a  dream,  a  woman  rarely  given  to  behold; 
and  her  hair,  lustrous-black,  unbraided  to  the  joy 
of  the  amorous  breezes,  was  not  more  beautiful 


ACT  II  63 

than  thine! 

Cedrielle.      ( Secretly  pleased) .     Pooh !     Pooh ! 

St.  Francis.  She  beckoned  to  me  guilefully — 
temptingly.  I  could  not  stay  myself.  Without 
withhold  I  stepped  into  the  sea,  and  "mirabile 
dictu!" — I  found  the  water  unyielding  to  my  feet. 
Together  we  floated  evenly,  my  arm  clasped  about 
her  bosom,  so  ...  which  was  not  gentler  than 
thine!  Then  she  spoke,  and  rich  pearls  dropped 
from  lips,  surely — not  sweeter  than  these!  (Kisses 
her.) 

Cedrielle.  Oh,  sir,  my  lord!  A  pretty  tale  for 
sooth!  Better  a  dream  whence  all  sweet  fancies 
rise. 

St.  Francis.  A  fancy  worth  all  dreams,  sweet 
Cedrielle.  But  that  is  not  the  end — 

Cedrielle.     What,  more  dreams? 

St.  Francis.  More  dreams,  dear  chuck,  since 
they  content  you.  Wouldst  not  more? 

Cedrielle.     (Naively.)      I  don't  know. 

St.  Francis.  (Continuing.)  It  was  not  long 
before  we  found  her  grot  beneath  the  sea ;  and  there, 
with  most  delicious  whisperings,  she  charmed  me  to 
her  couch,  whose  night  of  love  was  ending  without 
end.  Come,  chuck,  I'll  lead  thee  there. 

Cedrielle.     Oh,  where? 

St.  Francis.     There! 

Cedrielle.     Where? 

St.  Francis.  To  thy  mistress,  sweet  innocence. 

(Exeunt  both.) 

SCENE  2 — The  same. 
It   becomes   darker.     Stars   show  faintly. 


64        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Enter  Melmoth. 
Melmoth*     Now  is  it  to  beware  her! 

Now  is  it  to  pit  my  soul  against  its  vaunt 
ing. 

These  moments  of  effeminate  emotions, 

Once  overcome,  will  come  more  rare 

And  then  cease  together. 

Yet  near  her  I  must  fail.     'Tis  a  fatality 

That  warns  the  reason,  and  fastens  on  the 
heart 

A  sense  of  hopelessness. 

'Forget  her!'     Else  there  is  no  sureness  here 

Nor  hereafter.     But  how?     Hold  aloof? 

Nay;  the  knowledge  of  her,  near,  must  pre 
vent. 

Then,  send  her  away,  as  far  from  the  hope 
of  the  eye 

As    distance    can    secure.       Do    else — and 
fail; 

That  else  must  never  be ! 

Nor  all  her  words,  however  persuasive; 

Nor  her  silence,  dangerous  as  her  speech  ; 

Nor  sighs,  nor  tears,  nor  prayers,  nor  any 
thing, 

Shall  move  me  once.     I'll  send  her  away; 

'Twill  root  out  doubt  and  make  me  whole 
again, 

And   chase   away 

What  sick  fantasies  I  would  not  near  me. 

I'll  make  night  the  mirror  of  my  mind, 

And  so  divorce  her  image  from  my  sight 

That   memory,   like   a   tomb   once   well   in 
scribed, 

Which  time  has  rendered  smooth. 


ACT  II  65 

Will  lose  her   record,   and   living  she'll  be 
dead. 

Enter  Splinters 

Splinters.  Did  ever  a  fool  have  so  rare  a  chase 
after  another?  There  is  my  asteroid,  so  blinded  by 
his  own  light  that  he  cannot  see  me.  I  tell  thee, 
King,  thou  art  a  poor  calculator  for  all  thy  neck- 
strainings  o'  heaven.  If  thou  thinkst  to  lose  me  by 
hiding  in  this  cabbage-patch,  thou'lt  have  to  turn 
into  a  jimson-weed  and  make  me  hold  my  nose 
and  run  away.  Go  to  a  fool  and  say  "teach  me" 
for  I  tell  thee  a  fool's  thy  best  go-along.  He'll 
keep  thee  from  jaundice  as  a  string  of  camphor  or 
witch-root  from  disease.  Retain  me  and  thou'lt  not 
be  seldom  of  a  laugh.  And  by  all  the  rules,  laugh 
ter  seasons  sorrow  as  a  fool's  wit  regulates  a  wise 
man's  wisdom.  Follow  me,  Monarch.  Wink  when 
I  smile  and  call  it  night  when  I  yawn.  I'll  blow 
wisdom  in  thine  ear  if  the  wind  sits  not  at  thine 
elbow.  But  my  heart  is  very  much  killed  to  hear 
my  oracle  mumbling  to  the  stars. 

Melmoth.  Idiot,  avaunt!  Thou'lt  drive  me  to 
extremes ! 

Splinters.  Oh,  King,  thou  drivest  to  extremes 
those  that  love  thee  most,  and  tak'st  to  thy  bosom 
those  that  mean  thee  ill.  Thou  shouldst  not  do  it. 

Melmoth.     Speakst  thou  of  love,  poor  fool? 

Splinters.  I  do,  poor  King.  Language  hath  no 
business  otherwise. 

Melmoth.  How  canst  thou  love,  thou  misshapen 
thing? 

Splinters.  He  loves  that  lives,  and  lives  that 
loves. 

Melmoth.     Lovest  thou  anyone,  poor  fool? 


66       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Splinters.  The  whole  world,  poor  king, — I  love 
thee. 

Melmoth.  The  whole  world  ...  the 
whole  world  .  .  . 

Splinters.  Much  better  than  thou  lovest  thy 
self. 

Melmoth.  Hast  thou  a  mind  to  assert  the 
honesty  of  thy  word? 

Splinters.  Command  me,  king.  Bid  me  swal 
low  myself;  I'll  do't.  Say  anything.  Say  "Splint 
ers,  make  nothing  of  thyself".  Say  "Splinters,  go 
hang  thyself;"  I'll  do't,  by  my  scab! 

Melmoth.     Do  it,  then,  fool. 

Splinters.  Forthwith!  At  once!  Directly!  If 
you  discover  me,  king,  I'll  not  be  preserved;  nor 
raise  a  column  in  my  interim.  He  that  hangs  him 
self  gets  neither  to  heaven  nor  to  hell. 

(Exeunt  severally.) 

SCENE  3 — The  same. 
Evening  advanced. 

Enter  Dolora,  Ladies  and  Courtiers. 

Dolora.     Here  let  us  linger.   (Dolora  is  seated.) 
A  Courtier.     How  fair  is  life  that  wakes  to  such 
a  night! 

Here  could  I  linger  'til  th'  unhappy  world 
Creeps  in,  at  dawn,  upon  my  reverie, 
Dispersing  the  music  from  my  soul! 
See  how  yon  starry  fire-flies  witch  to  us 
From    the    frame    of    heaven    as  tho    they 

yearned 
To  this  sphere  as  we  to  theirs.    Is  not 


ACT  II  67 

This   scene    in    harmony   with   things   more 

felt 

Than  understood? 
Lady.     A  night  of  poetry  and  song! 
Another  Lady.     Of  love,  and  thoughts  of  love, 

and  memories. 
Dolora.     The  night  is  fair,  but  let  the  heart  be 

heavy, 
Then    stars    may    show    most    beautifully 

bright, 

And  love  may  fly  to  ecstasies  of  song, 
And  song  to  love, — it  hath  no  charm. 
A    Courtier.      How    now,    sweet     lady?     Thou 

art  weary. 

Second  Courtier.     Or  malcontent? 
Third  Courtier.     Or  loved? 
Dolora.     In  sooth,  a  measure  of  each  and  much 
of   none.      Pray,   friends,   stray  you  some   distance 
farther  and  return  yourselves  to  the  palace. 
Courtier.      But  come  with  us. 
Dolora.     Nay,  let  me  remain. 
Lady.     Then   keep  you  safe   the  while. 
Courtier.     Madam,  we  leave  you.     Good  night. 
All.     Good   night. 

Dolora.     Good   night   to  you   all.      (Exeunt  all 
but  Dolora.) 

Enter  Gedrielle 

Cedrielle.      Dolora,    you    seek    to    be    too    much 
alone  of  late — 

Dolora.     You  come  from  my  father? 
Cedrielle.     From   his  physician,   madam;   a  sprit 
of  a  man,  whose  wife  should  be  a  goody-gammer  to 
live  with  him. 

Dolora.     What  was  his  advice? 


68        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Cedrielle.  Without  coaxing  he  would  pass  for 
a  mummy.  All  he  had  a  tongue  for  was  "better, 
ma'am,  better"  like  a  spitting  cat.  What,  does  Do- 
lora  sigh  so  profoundly?  Then  is  the  world  in 
love  or  out  of  it.  Both  they  say,  make  us  sad 
and  pale,  and  thin  and  fretful — 

Dolora.  That  I  am  not  gay,  there  is  cause 
enow. 

Cedrielle.  I  doubt  it  not.  Yet  be  not  silent 
overmuch.  Such  thoughts  as  you  may  think  on 
gracing  with  your  speech  may  in  a  measure,  like 
tears  from  the  eye,  relieve  the  pain  of  the  heart. 
Communication  of  any  deep-set  woe  channels  it 
from  us;  denied  expression,  it  is  but  suppressed, 
not  lost;  for  sorrow  must  spend  itself,  else,  like 
flames  that  still  survive  in  embers,  'twill  up  again. 
But  let  us  rather  speak  of  things  nearer  to  our 
pleasures.  There's  the  marquis,  madam. 

Dolora.  My  brother  Esmund!  Ah,  me,  un 
happy  ! 

Cedrielle.     No,  I  mean,  St.  Francis. 

Dolora.     Oh  let  alone! 

Cedrielle.     But,  madam,  you  did  favor  him  once. 

Dolora.     Once, — perhaps. 

Cedrielle.     And   now? 

Dolora.  Now  has  the  advantage  of  time  and 
discretion.  Indeed,  Cedrielle,  it  was  a  foolish  fan 
cy  of  yesterday,  which  today  tutors  me  from,  and 
tomorrow  will  make  me  forget. 

Cedrielle.  'Twill  grieve  him  much  to  know  it, 
madam. 

Dolora.  Wherefore,  Cedrielle?  Mine  was  not 
the  word  or  smile  or  manner  of  address  to  encour 
age  him.  I  looked  not  pleased  when  he  was  wont 


ACT  II  69 

to  flatter,  nor  grieved  when  he  affected,  nor  fol 
lowed  him  his  fashions. 

Cedrielle.  Yet  why  should  you  thus  ignore  him  ? 
He  is  deserving  of  much  earnest  consideration,  be 
ing  a  man  of  no  mean  qualities. 

Dolora.     If   that  were  so.     ... 

Cedrielle.  He  is  a  soldier,  madam ;  a  statesman ; 
a  lover. 

Dolora.     Tush. 

Cedrielle.  The  pink  of  chivalry;  the  choice  flow 
er  of  the  court. 

Dolora.      (Deridingly.)     "Choice  flower!" 

Cedrielle.  Nor  has  the  promise  of  his  steel  cheat 
ed  itself. 

Dolora.  (Suddenly.)  Cedrielle,  it  is  plain,  you 
love  him! 

Cedrielle.     I,  madam? 

Dolora.     Do  you  not? 

Cedrielle.     I,  madam? 

Dolora.  Then  why  do  you  speak  of  him  to  me  so 
approvingly,  and  of  things  intrusive  to  this  moment 
which  is  one  of  grief. 

Cedrielle.  Indeed,  madam,  if  you  are  anywise 
perturbed  in  spirits  I  doubt  not  but  the  King's  to 
blame ! 

Dolora.     Cedrielle! 

Cedrielle.     Nay,  do  I  speak  false? 

Dolora.  (Indignant.)  If  you  should  speak  at 
all! 

Cedrielle.  Dolora,  be  not  vexed.  I  speak  not 
selfishly  in  my  own  concern;  only  am  I  jealous 
of  yours.  You  love  the  king,  madam,  do  you  not? 

Dolora.     Cedrielle! 

Cedrielle.     Nay,  do  you  not? — frankly,  now! 


70        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dolora.     What  then?    What  then,  Cedrielle? 

Cedrielle.  That  were  well  if  love  were  love 
alone.  But  here  is  rank,  ambition,  policy,  wealth, 
and  over  it  all  the  world's  cruel  eye  like  a  Cyclops, 
looking  down  inquiringly.  And  those,  it  seems,  un 
tutored  in  the  craft  that  shields,  must  suffer  for  the 
rest.  Dolora,  there  are  courses  in  the  wind  that 
are  not  free;  then  how  can  we,  in  choice,  with 
out  injury,  expect  escaping  from  an  only  course  to 
which  we  are  bound.  You  love  the  king;  then 
it  were  well  if  you  could  marry  him;  but  that's 
denied ;  then — 

Dolora.     Then? — 

Cedrielle.  Love  must  find  a  way  to  save  it 
self.  Now  there's  St.  Francis  hath  a  passion 
for  you.  ,Let  us  say,  even  as  you  do,  that  he 
affects  you  not;  but  that's  no  matter.  We  rare 
ly  ever  marry  those  we  love,  and  those  we  love  and 
marry,  as  a  consequence,  we  find  we  do  not  love. 
'Tis  like  that  something  which  each  of  us  adds  to 
the  reality  when  it  becomes  a  memory  or  an  ex 
pectation.  And,  in  like  vein,  the  bonds  that  fetter 
love  are  those  which  make  them  tire.  Take  Fran 
cis  for  thine  honor;  be  his  wife;  then  will  you  shut 
the  inquisitive  eye  of  the  world ;  then  may  you  love 
the  king  with  best  assurance.  Marriage  is  so  oft  a 
happy  robe  behind  which  we,  virtuous  women,  hide 
our  swreet  sins.  And  besides,  husbands  never  know 
what  fools  their  wives  make  of  them.  'Tis  thus, 
Dolora,  that  we,  being  opposed  by  fortune,  avenge 
ourselves  on  life. 

Dolora.  Oh,  Cedrielle,  and  do  you  think  I 
would  yield  to  such  dark  practices? 

Cedrielle.     Why   not,   when   so  much  happiness 


ACT  II  71 

depends  upon  it  ?  They  are  dark  only  when  you  see 
them  so.  Circumstances  make  things  proper  or  im 
proper. 

Dolor  a.  This  blunt  reasoning  makes  you  less 
my  sympathizer. 

Cedrielle.     Nay,  more  your  friend,  Dolora. 

Dolor  a.  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it,  you  do  advise  me 
wrongly. 

Cedrielle.  But  safely,  madam.  Oh,  'tis  fine  fol 
ly  to  mistake  the  world ;  there's  art  and  benefit  in 
understanding  it.  Those  that  miss  it,  have  for  their 
consolation,  shame  and  misery. 

Dolora..  You  are  cruel,  Cedrielle.  It  cannot 
be  as  you  say.  Indeed,  it  cannot. 

Cedrielle.  Alas,  I  say  but  little  of  so  much  that 
can  be  said !  Oh,  friend,  I  myself  have  been  bitter 
ly  taught  that  the  awakening  to  the  truth  is  much 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  long  sweet  sleep.  Love, 
you  must  know,  is  more  than  roses  and  soft  sighs  and 
starry  nights.  And  the  world,  Dolora,  is  not  as  the 
saints  and  angels  dream  of  it,  but  as  man  has  made 
it. 

Dolora.  Is  there  then  no  virtue  in  the  world? 
No!  No!  Yours  must  be  a  false  teaching,  Ce 
drielle.  I  cannot  and  dare  not  follow  it. 

Cedrielle.     False,  perhaps,  but  necessary. 

Dolora.  Cease,  I  prithee,  cease.  You  make  me 
despair!  Oh,  I  am  weary  of  looking  on  the  strug 
gle  and  crossing  threads. 

Enter  Royce 

Royce.  A  fair  good  evening  to  you,  ladies.  How 
does  the  Duke,  your  father? 

Dolora.     I  thank  you;    hardly  well,  my  lord. 

Royce.     It  gives  me  pain  to  hear  it. 


72       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Cedrielle.  There  is  no  cause,  though,  for  alarm, 
God  wot. 

Royce.  Indeed,  there  should  not  be.  And  'tis 
a  great  happiness,  madam,  to  know  that  his  majesty 
has  recalled  his  decree. 

Dolora.     Do  you  bring  news  from  Esmund? 

Royce.  Ay,  madam;  he  is  impatient  that  you 
come  to  him. 

Dolora.     Will   that  be  possible? 

Royce.  Acquaint  us  but  with  the  hour  and  we 
shall  create  the  opportunity. 

Dolora.  Then  tomorrow  night,  this  time,  God 
willing. 

Royce.     Excellent,   madam. 

Enter  St.  Francis 

St.  Francis.  Good  evening,  ladies.  You  make 
the  beauty  of  this  night  complete.  Royce?  Re 
mind  me  to  speak  to  you  of  things.  Come  you 
from  the  Duke?  How  does  he  fare? 

Royce.     I  am  on  my  way  to  visit  him. 

St.  Francis.     I  would  inquire  after  his  health. 

Cedrielle.     The  Duke  is  better,  my  lord. 

St.  Francis.  I  rejoice  to  hear  it.  (To  Dolora.) 
And  you,  lady? 

Dolora.     Indifferently  well,  sir. 

St.  Francis.  No  better,  madam?  I  am  grieved. 
(Aside  to  Royce.)  You  have  received  news  from 
the  Prince? 

Royce.  (Aside  to  Francis.)  If  we  had,  then 
you  should  know  of  it. 

St.  Francis.  True,  true,  (Aloud.)  Eh,  shall 
we  to  the  Duke? 

Royce.     Let  us  go,  if  you  please. 

St.  Francis.     Ladies,  your  pardon. 


ACT  II  73 

(Aside  to  Royce.)     You  are  not  offended? 
Royce.      (Aside  to  St.  Francis.)     Wherefore? 
St.   Francis.      (Aloud.)      I    follow  you   at  once, 
Royce.     Convey  to  the  Duke  my  sentiments.    (Exit 
Royce.) 

(To  Cedrielle.)     Will  you  give  me  leave? 
Cedrielle.       (Withdrawing.)       Willingly,       my 
lord. 

Dolora.     Cedrielle,  be  good  to  remain. 
St.  Francis.     I  pray,  madam,  we  be  alone.     My 
words  are  of  such  character,   they  were  best  said 
in  confidence  of  two. 

Dolora.     I  am  sorry,  then,  that  I  must  be  un 
kind — 

Cedrielle.     But,  madam — ! 

Dolora.     This  to  deny  you,  sir. 

Cedrielle.     Dolora,  if  you  please — 

Dolora.     Peace.     Will  you  resume  your  seat? 

St.  Francis.     Madam,  I  am  more  put  out  than 

hurt. 

And  I  take  it — your  present  disposition — 
As  a  difficulty  in  the  course 
Of  many  that  are  thrown  in  the  way 
To  discourage  effort.     But  I  hope,  madam, 
For  the  time  when  you  will  be  both  pleased 
And   earnest   to   receive  me. 
Where  ambition  rests,  'tis  hard  to  tell, 
But  it  perches  high. — Farewell.      (Exit  St. 

Francis.) 

^  Dolora.  Farewell.  Ah,  I  would  'twere  ne'er 
"good  morrow!"  Cedrielle,  there  are  very  few  de 
serve  the  name  of  man;  those  that  do,  we  fail  to 
recognize.  I  cannot  love  St.  Francis;  he  hath  not 
that  quality  in  him.  Rather,  he  repulses  me. 


74        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Cedrielle.  Why,  madam,  you'd  put  a  mask  on 
fortune  herself.  Were  Providence  so  faithful  to 
my  needs,  I'd  be  content. 

Dolora.  Thou  hast  said  it,  Cedrielle;  my  con 
tent  is  not  thine.  Each  heart  must  estimate  its  own. 
But  speak  no  more  of  anything.  I  am  so,  I  would 
I  could  depart  this  beautiful  and  sorry  world,  as 
quietly  and  gently  as  a  sail  sinks  below  the  hori 
zon. 

Cedrielle.  These  are  naughty  thoughts,  Dolora. 
Will  you  come  in?  The  night  is  progressed  far, 
and  there's  no  comfort  in  the  open. 

Dolora.  No.  Go  you  in  alone.  Self-communion 
awhile  will  put  to  rest  those  tumultuous  currents 
that  make  each  day  a  maelstrom. 

Cedrielle.  Good  night,  then.  Tell  not  thy  se 
crets  to  the  stars,  for  they'll  betray  thee.  These  are 
times  we  dare  not  even  trust  to  Heaven.  (Exit 
Cedrielle.} 

Dolora  takes  up  instrument  and  begins  playing. 

Enter  Melmoth. 
Melmoth.     Why   does   the   music   so    affect   my 

soul 
That  it  would  be  responsive?     What  spirit 

is't 
Which   leads   me   here   without   my   senses' 

will 

Opposing?     Oh,  I  would  break  away 
And   cannot.     Why   is   this?   and   that  my 

soul 

Aspires  towards  her  in  all  the  terror 
Of  its  loneliness?    Oh,  why  am  I  thus!  thus! 
And  not  as  I  should  be! 
Dolora.     Melmoth! 


ACT  II  75 

Melmoth.     There's  the  cause!     Now  yield  to  it, 

Melmoth, 

In  that  perverseness  of  your  being 
Which  strives  against  the  utmost  will; 
Yield  and  be  dragged  down  to  where 
Thou  fearst  to  think  on. 
Dolora.     Melmoth,  I  pray  you — 
Melmoth.     Oh,  what's  to  do? 
Dolora.     Have  you  come  at  last,  my  lord? 
Melmoth.     Oh,  what's  to  do? 

Sustain    the    vast,    unshouldered    globe    of 

heaven  ? 

Drag  the  ancient  firmament  adown? 
Confound  the   'stablished   forces  of  all   na 
ture? 
Rush  in  amongst  them  till  they  turn  life  to 

chaos  ? 
And   if   to  cry,  where   then,   to  heaven   or 

hell? 

Dolora.     Melmoth,   hear  me! 
Melmoth.     Nay,   but  hear  me!     And  wretched 

be  thy  soul,  if  thou  failst  me  now. 
Depart  this  presence  ever,  that  thine  image, 
Like  the  shadow  o'er  my  soul  which  thou 
Hast  hung  there,  tending  to  remain, 
May  pass  to  death. 

Dolora.     Oh,  I'll  not  believe  thee,  Melmoth. 
These  are  words 

Prompted  by  some  drear  and  dreadful  night 
mare 

Of  the  sense  that  has  thy  life  enslaved. 
What  is  their  unholy  origin?     Tell  me. 
Thou    art    sick,    Melmoth.      Thou'rt    con 
sumed 


76        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

By  something  wild  and  superstrange 
That   must   dispute   thy   manhood.      Surely, 
This  is  it.    Oh,  speak  to  me,  Melmoth! 
Hast  thou   no  word   to   offer  me  in   kind 
ness 
Or  in  charity?    Cast  me  not  thus  from  your 

true  confidence. 
Let  me  linger  near  thee. 
Melmoth.      No,    no,    stay    not    to    answer    me 

(Aside.)     Oh,  fie,  fie! 
Dolora.     I    would    not    stay,    Melmoth,    if    this 

your  wish  found  echo 
In  your  heart.     I  would  go  away; 
Nay,  I  would  seek  those  distances 
Where  the  winds,  sweeping  another  heaven, 
Kiss  not  the  stars.     So  far  away, 
So  unfamiliar  to  this  hour  of  time, 
No  thought  could    follow    flight.       But    I 

know, 

And  clearly  is  it  given  me  to  know, 
That  I  am  as  dearly  necessary  to  thy  being 
As  thou  art  to  mine.    (Embraces  him.) 
Melmoth.     Great  resolves,  where  are  you  now? 
And  thou 
Sustaining   might  with   all   your   curbs   and 

checks  ? 

Oh,  how  weak's  the  fear  of  thee,  Oh  doom, 
Oh  vast  and  pitiless  doom 
That  lasts  to  everness,  against  one  moment 
Of   this   mortal    love! 
Dolora.     This  is  Melmoth,  self;    the  other  was 

not  he. 

Tell  me  that  you  love  me. 
Tell  me  that  in  your  deep  heart 


ACT  II  77 

You  have  found  a  love  that  times  and  spheres 
Yet  unwritten,  will  not  know  to  value, 
Or  knowing,  not  believe!     Tell  me,  Mel- 
moth,  that  I  may  hear  and  know. 
Melmoth.     So,  I  love  thee. 

And  I  will  kiss  thee  on  these  lips  of  truth, 
Sweet,  sweet,  Dolora! 
For  thou, — thou  art  the  echo  of  my  soul 
Which  has  no  voice  without  thee. 
And  thou  art  fair!    fair  above  the  thought 
That  can  imagine  thee;  above  the  love 
That  can  be  given  thee.     So  I  love  thee. 
(They  embrace.) 
Curtain 

SCENE  4 — The  same. 

Later  in  the  night. 

The  Palace  is  lit  up. 

Music  heard  from  within.     Sounds  of  merriment. 

Moonlight.     Clouds. 

Enter  Brabant  and  Berkeley. 

Brabant.     I    had    thought    to    find    our    friends, 
Dohlgrin  and  Royce,  before  us. 

Berkeley.     Very   like,    they   will   be   here    anon. 
Upon  what  hour  should  they  expect  us  here? 

Brabant.     About  the  stroke  of  eight. 

Berkeley.     'Tis  later  now. 

Brabant.     Didst  count  the  clock? 

Berkeley.     Ay,  and  heard  it  welcome  eight.     But 
'tis  a  goodly  while  the  even  hour  was  struck. 

Brabant.     I  did  not  think  the  time  so  much  ad 
vanced.     How  the  moon  rolls  to-night,  Berkeley. 
She  hath  a  worried  and  a  wearied  countenance. 


78        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Berkeley.  From  looking  on  this  earth  she's 
grown  so  pale  and  melancholy. 

Brabant.     Or  from  contemplation  of  herself. 

Berkeley.  What  a  history  is  hers!  Ah!  would 
we  knew  more  that  we  might  wonder  less — 

Brabant.     Didst  hear  of  Austria? 

Berkeley.  No.  How  were  the  Ambassadors  re 
ceived?  Not  well? 

Brabant.  Neither  well  nor  wisely,  but  in  such 
a  manner  as  delicately  touched  their  pride.  They 
left  in  anger  and  in  haste,  and  Austria  rebuked,  be 
comes  the  friend  to  the  foes  of  her  enemy.  Thereon 
may  we  build  another  hope  for  John. 

Berkeley.     The  Prince  is  not  advised? 

Brabant.  No.  We  shall  first  learn  more  of  the 
condition  of  State  and  then  acquaint  him  of  it  to 
gether  with  such  matters  as  require  communication. 
But  they  are  not  yet  come. 

Berkeley.  Punctuality's  among  the  lost  virtues, 
it  seems. 

Brabant.  True.  Time  is  the  universal  creditor 
who  lends  to  every  man.  But  those  that  pass  the 
margin  of  their  debts,  and  neglect  it  after,  soon 
find  themselves  adrift  in  bankruptcy. 

Berkeley.  We'll  trust  our  friends  will  rise  above 
the  tide  and  float  securely. 

Brabant.     So  let  us  think. 

Berkeley.  What  final  hopes  may  we  draw  from 
our  enterprise? 

Brabant.     The    hope    that   justice   sits    in.      Er 
ror's  temporal. 

Since  Melmoth,  thro'  his  tyranny  and  reign, 
Has  fallen  from  the  pedestal  of  favor 
On  which  his  heroism  perched  him  high, 


ACT  II  79 

There's  confidence  takes  the  place  of  prom 
ise. 

And  if  you,  and  I,  and  many  others 
Fraternal  to  the  most  dear  object, 
Will  act  in  silence  and  security, 
And   see  each   day  more  wealthy   than   the 

last 

With  earnest  effort,  we  cannot  fail. 
Berkeley.     Then  have  we  all  to  hope  for. 
For  none  within  the  Prince's  confidence 
Is  anything  but  conscious  of  the  weight 
And  trust  of  his  position,  each  ready 
To  sustain  his  part. 

Brabant.     I  am  assured  'tis  so.     Such  mettle  as 
our  Prince's  draws  to  it  only  the  finer  filings. 
Berkeley.     Here  are  our  confederates  at  last! 

Enter  Royce  and  Dohlgrin. 

Brabant.  You  are  late,  my  lords,  but  we  greet 
you  most  heartily. 

Royce.     Ours  is  the  fault,  gentlemen.  We  missed 
the  hour  on  the  concourse.    And  we  grieve  the  more 
to  have  detained  you  since  the  nature  of  your  news 
must  hang  upon  the  clock. 
Brabant.     It  does. 

Dohlgrin.     This  should  be  news  indeed! 
Berkeley.     Here's  something  to  fret  our  swords: 
France  and  Britain  have  both  given  pledge  to  ren 
der  assistance. 

Royce  and  Dohlgrin.  You  give  us  great  joy, 
friends ! 

Brabant.  The  cohorts  are  already  joining  arms. 
The  Prince  is  now  impatient  for  a  fair  conception 
of  the  strength  of  Melmoth's  forces  as  opposed  to 
those  of  faithful  promise  recorded  on  this  paper  here. 


8o       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Royce.  Give  it  to  me.  (Takes  paper  from  Bra 
bant.) 

Dohlgrin.     Come  nearer  to  the  light,  Royce. 

Royce.  There  is  light  enough  to  read  by,  here. 
(Scans  paper.) 

Dohlgrin.  (To  Brabant.)  Here  are  those  re 
quested  by  the  Prince.  (Offers  paper.) 

Brabant.     Oh!  forsooth. 

Dohlgrin.     When  was  it  last  you  saw  the  Prince? 

Brabant.     But    two   days   gone.      If   you   would 

know  his  tone, 

We  left  him  proud  and  certain  of  the  out 
come. 

Dohlgrin.     Where's  a  better  word? 

Royce.  This  paper,  as  best  as  I  can  make  out, 
doth  mark  a  total  of  twenty  thousand  . 

Brabant.  That  is  but  half.  Please  to  observe 
the  other. 

Royce.     One  record  was  all  you  gave  me. 

Brabant.      Oh    pardon,    I    am    much    forgetful. 
(Takes  out  second  paper  from  bosom.) 
Here! 

Royce.  (After  studying  both  papers.)  Even 
then  we  number  no  more  than  half  the  ready  forces 
of  the  kingdom. 

Brabant  and  Berkeley.     No  more? 

Dohlgrin.  Unless  we  count  on  those  yet  unac 
knowledged.  Were  Esmund  free — 

Royce.  It  has  been  learned  that  several  cohorts 
in  the  line  are  fast  on  joining  forces  with  the 
Prince. 

Dohlgrin.     Some  of  which  are  doubtful. 

Royce.     These  with  Esmund's  liberation,  should 
be  won  over. 


ACT  II  8 1 

The  greater  part  are  pledged  in  the  King's 

favor. 

All    things   weighed   there's   no   discourage 
ment. 

Berkeley.     There  were  none,  even  were  they  less 
promising. 

Brabant.     Royce,  several  come  this  way.     Shall 
we  be  detained? 

Dohlgrin.     Stay!     But  let  it  not  seem  that  we 
are  in  private  converse. 

Royce.     Best,   go!     For  once  suspicion  attaches 
to  ourselves,  the  best  designs  must  suffer. 
Brabant.     That's  so.     Haste,  haste,  Berkeley! 
Berkeley.     Pass  we  into  the  banquet  hall.     To 
morrow  we  shall  further  treat  of  this. 

(Exeunt  Berkeley  and  Brabant.) 
Royce.     The  time  is  come  when  Esmund  must  be 

out. 

There's  holy  need  of  him,  dear  Dohlgrin. 
We'll  lay  our  plans  to-night. 
Dohlgrin.     Even  so.     But  who  are  these? 

(Enter  De  Forest,  Steel  and  Edwin,  sins- 
ing.) 

"Who  loseth  his  sins  is  a  great  gainer; 
Wine  and  women  work  our  end; 
Happy,  they  say,  is  the  abstainer, — 
Steele.     But  who  the  devil  can  abstain?" 
De  Forest.     Peace,  awhile.    Who's  there? 
Steele.     What,  Royce  and  Dohlgrin?     Up,  up, 
for  shame! 

Royce.     Good  even,  my  lords.     I  am  glad  to  in 
tercept  your  haste. 

Steele.     Do  not,  dear  sir,  we're  hasting,  hurry 
ing,  hankering,  scurrying. 


82        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Edwin.     Soft,  Richard. 

De  Forest.  What  is  it  you  would  have  of  us, 
my  lords? 

Steele.  We  can  give  nothing  but  our  good 
faith,  and  that's  frail. 

Royce.  Will  you  waste  a  moment  in  our  be 
half  and  relieve  us  of  a  care  ? 

Steele.  Hark,  hark,  sirs!  How  the  glasses 
chime,  sir!  Come  along,  sirs,  or  let  us  pass. 

Dohlgrin.     We'll  not  suffer  to  detain  them  then. 

De  Forest.  Oh,  hush!  Richard!  There'll  be 
enough  to  go  you  double  and  carry  you  home.  (  To 
Royce  and  Dohlgrin.)  We  are  at  your  service,  my 
lords. 

Royce.  If  so  it  please  you,  convey  our  regrets 
to  the  King,  should  he  inquire. 

De  Forest.  Most  gladly.  We'd  do  a  better  ser 
vice  for  the  saying.  I  know  your  worth,  my  lords. 

Royce.  We  thank  you.  A  pleasant  time  to  you, 
gentlemen. 

De  Forest.     I'm  sorry  you  will  not  attend. 

Royce.  We  have  special  duties  to  perform,  and 
must  deny  ourselves. 

De  Forest.  I  do  not  doubt  it.  Well,  good 
night. 

Steele.  Ay,  good  night — to  us.  We'll  pledge 
you  in  our  cups.  (Withdrawing.) 

Edwin.  (Singing.)  "There's  one  I  love  above 
the  stars — " 

Steele.    (Singing.)     "But  not  above  the  wine!" 

Good   night,   good  night,   we'll   pledge  you 
in  our  cups. 

Dohlgrin.     Royce,  I  think — 

Royce.     My  friends,  have  we  your  good  will  to 


ACT  II  83 

speak  to  you  again  of  a  certain  business? 

De  Forest.     Ay,  what  is  it,  sir? 

Dohlgrin.     Not  now,  eh,  Royce? 

Royce.  Tomorrow  afternoon  or  evening,  sirs — 
not  to-night. 

De  Forest.  Very  well,  my  lords.  Our  wish 
is  your  pleasure. 

(Exeunt  De  Forest,  Steele  and  Edwin.) 

Royce.  They  were  one  time  Esmund's  compan 
ions,  and  may  assist  us  in  his  release. 

Dohlgrin.  Well  bethought.  I  know  them. 
They  are  men,  generous  of  heart,  tho'  sometimes 
their  freedom  overleaps  their  discretion.  But  excess 
teaches  moderation;  that's  a  fact. 

Royce.  Oh,  I  have  no  word  of  censure.  They 
are,  it  seems,  happier  than  we,  and  therefore  all  the 
more  faithful  to  life's  purpose.  In  them  as  in  all 
else  we  discover  truth.  The  world's  one  grand 
and  interwoven  moral  in  which  all  things  and  deeds 
are  comprehended.  One  source,  one  spirit,  and  one 
expression!  Each  of  us  is  caring  for  his  thread, 
weaving  it  across  to  intricate  designs  and  interlacing 
with  a  thousand  others,  like  tiny  currents  that  run 
together  finally,  creating  one  mighty  stream.  ( They 
are  about  to  go.) 

Dohlgrin.  Hark,  Royce!  Here  is  one  whose 
cautious  step  would  escape  the  hearing.  See,  is  it 
not  Dolora? 

Royce.     Why,  so  it  is! 

Dohlgrin.  I  wonder  she  is  here.  Will  she  to 
the  banquet? 

Royce.  I'll  not  think  so.  Women  do  not  grace 
the  banquets  here. 

Enter  Dolora 


84        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dohlgrin.  There's  a  paragon  of  womankind !  For 
her  sake  alone,  Royce,  I  could  almost  wish  our  pro 
ject  tardy  progress.  Her  love  for  him  that  is  our 
common  enemy,  improves  our  own. 

Royce.  I  do  well  conceive  you.  Such  worth  we 
cannot  estimate  by  parallel,  for  then  it  hath  none. 
(To  Dolora.)  God  save  you  gracious  lady! 

Dolora.     Oh,   kind    gentlemen,    dear   friends,    I 
thank  you.    Do  you  know  if  his  Majesty  be  within? 
Dohlgrin.     So   please   you,    the   sennet   has   not 
sounded. 

Dolora.     Then  they've  begun  without  him? 
Dohlgrin.     I  doubt  not,  but  'twas  his  wish. 
Dolora.     Then  he  will  pass  this  way? 
Royce.     We  are  ignorant,  madam.     Very  like  he 
will. 

Dohlgrin.  If  he  be  in  his  chamber — but  here  he 
comes  himself.  (To  Royce.)  'Twould  be  unpleas 
ant  to  have  us  encounter. 

(Dolora  looks  to  left.) 

Royce.  (To  Dohlgrin.)  That's  so.  Madam, 
we  take  our  leave. 

Dolora.  (Not  looking  towards  them.)  Good 
night.  Good  night. 

Royce.     She  loves  the  king  too  truly  to  be  happy. 

Her  sorrow  speaks  upon  her  face. 
Dohlgrin.     Alas!  too  eloquent.     (Exeunt  Dohl 
grin  and  Royce.) 

Dolora.     He  comes  like  Woden  sunken   in  his 

dreams, 

Despairing  of  the  worlds. 
What  Norns  have  shown  him  the  enchanted 

well 
Of  whose  waters  he  had  drunk  the  drop 


ACT  II  85 

Fatal  of  too  much  knowledge? 

What  price  was  thine  to  give,  unhappy  man  ? 

Oh,    that   the   mind   could   comprehend   the 

heart — 
Its  vague,  yet  all  too  perfect  visitations! 

Melmoth  enters  slowly. 
Melmoth.     Rocks  be  founded  as  this  vault,  no 

earthquake 
Shall  shake  you! 
Dolora.     Dear,  my  lord — 
Melmoth.     Spirit  of  my  thought,  why  art  thou 

here? 
Hence   from   my   sight!     What   art   thou? 

What's  thy  skill? 

What  hellish  darkness  gave  thee  origin? 
Tell  me  what  thou  art? 

Dolora.     Oh     what's     upon     thee,     Melmoth? 
Who's  he  that  poisons  thee  to  my  desires? 
Melmoth.     Pass  and  speak  not  once! 
Dolora.     I'll  speak  and  thou  art  bound  to  hear 

me! 

'Tis  that  thou  lovest  me  better  than  I  myself 
Can  adequately  tell  myself,  or  thou  to  me, 
Which  makes  me  bold   to  ask,  nay,  to  de 
mand, 

Why  thou  wilt  thus  betray  thy  nobler  na 
ture. 

Some  deep  impossible  hold  upon  thy  soul 
Drives    thee    from    thyself.      Then    let    me 

know ; 

For  I  am  thine,  more  than  this  mortal  ves 
ture 

Will  let  reveal.     I  am  thine!  thine! 
Melmoth.      Oh,  begone!      This  torture  cannot 


86        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

much  the  more  endure; 
Or  else,  I'll  not. 
Dolora.     Melmoth,  I  must  know! 

By  our  love  I  conjure  you  to  tell  me. 
And  if  that  tie  have  not  the  veritable  root — 
Be  not  dear  enough  to  claim  thee  to  me, 
Then  indeed,  keep  silent. 
Melmoth.     Oh,    still    be   great,    Dolora!      Not, 

not,  exacting! 

If  thou  wouldst  hurry  on  the  dreadful  doom, 
Stay  and  be  the  cause. 
It  cannot  be  love  that  cannot  die  for  it, 
And  that  I  ask  not. 
Dolora.     Nay,   but   ask   it   and   you'll   not   need 

again. 

Ask  a  greater  thing,  Melmoth,  that  I, 
With  thine  own  instrument  and  mine  own 

hand, 

Thy  dear  blood  let; 
And  I  will  do  it,  failing  then  myself. 
For  how  much  greater  is  my  love,  than  is 
My  womanly  soul  that  can  give  instance  of  't. 
Then  how  much  rather  death  than  this  blind 

torment — 
This  taking  to  the  heart  and  casting  from 

it — 

This  starving  and  wasting  of  the  soul! 
Oh,  speak  once! 

And  let  me  use  your  blade  upon  my  heart, 
For  thus  is  death  most  sacred.  (A  pause.) 
Why  is  Melmoth  silent? 

(Draws  blade  from  Melmoth's  belt.     He  takes 
it  from  her.) 

Oh,  teach  me,  Melmoth! 


ACT  II  87 

For  I  am  simple  in  my  understanding. 
Melmoth.     Untaught  I  must  love  thee  most. 

Time  will  be  when  I  will  tell  thee  all, 

And  you  will  hate  me. 

But  spare  me  now  the  rendering.     'Tis  such 
a  thought 

Must  make  dumb  in  utterance  and  leave  me 
mad. 

Spare   me   this   once,   and   leave   me.       Go, 

Dolora. 
Dolora.     I  go,   Melmoth.       Good  night.      And 

I'll    not    haunt    thee    more.     .     .     .     good 
night.     .     .     . 

'Til  from  thine  own  necessity  thou'lt  feel 

To  come  to  me.     .     .     .     good  night. 
Melmoth.      (Dreamily.)       Good    night.       (Exit 
Dolora.) 

Oh,  I  have  wandered  in  a  mist! 

Stars  shine  out  and  teach   direction  to  my 
soul! 

And    from    your    holy    and    unlettered    dis 
tances, 

Speak  to  me! 

Light,  light,  more  light!     I'm  lost  upon  the 
waves 

That  heave  in  the  still  vast  night  without 
an  end, 

And  carry  me  afar 

Ever  to  furthering  bournes  where  sits  and 
waits, 

In  spectral  loneliness,  like  doom's  own  phan 
tom, 

Dimmest  Uncertainty. 


88       MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Oh  Dolora,  Dolora,  you  have  pressed  upon 

me 

A  bewildering  thought  which  rings  most  fa 
tal!  (Draws  dagger  unwittingly.) 
My  manhood  is  entricked.    I  feel  the  gravity 
Of  my  inner  being  giving  way 
To  a  chaos  of  ungovernable  revolt. 
Giant  longings  seek  their  natal  fires 
And  call  to  nature  in  half  despairing  tones, 
Deep  from  the  dungeon-keep  of  my  heart, 
'Out/  'Out!'  and  others,  'Stay/  'Hold!' 
Curtain 

SCENE  5. 

Fore-stage. 

Before  the  Banquet  Hall. 

Through  the  portieres  a  glimpse  of  the  banquet 
hall  can  be  gotten. 

Discovered  Servingmen. 

First  Servant.  I  tell  thee,  when  wine  sinks 
words  swim.  Mark  the  courtiers.  There  is  a  mar 
quis  of  the  first  water  drowning  in  his  own  tank. 
My  word,  as  I  am  a  God-fearing  man,  these  mar- 
kees,  dues  and  lords  from  France  and  Hogoland 
have  the  very  devil  in  them,  being  such  by  heredity, 
or  becoming  such  by  necessity. 

Second  Servant.     Say  you  so! 

First  Servant.  Fei  fo  fum !  If  there  be  truth  in 
wine,  and,  as  the  saying  goes,  truth  be  sober,  then 
are  our  bibbers  judges  and  temperate  men  fibbers. 
My  father — Got  wot,  he  was  a  well-meaning  man, 
albeit  only  an  edifier  of  clothes,  lofty  in  itself,  gave 
me,  his  only  male  sprit,  who  was,  to  speak  properly, 


ACT  II  89 

a  distinguished  unit  in  a  mass, — there  being  twelve 
daughters  besides  me,  which  misfortune,  I  have 
grave  fear,  brought  him  so  early  to  his  final  lay  out 
— this  same  father,  who  was,  as  I  said,  a  well- 
meaning  man  despite  everything,  gave  me  a  better 
breeding,  hark  you,  with  all  his  daughters — the  Lord 
preserve  them  with  their  mates — than  any  show 
present. 

Second  Servant.  I  make  me  no  doubt  'tis  so.  But 
how  comes  it  they've  begun  feasting  and  the  King 
not  here? 

First  Servant.  Why,  he  must  have  told  them: 
"  'fall  to',  'tuck  in',  'imbibe'  without  me." 

Second  Servant.     Say  you  so ! 

First  Servant.  Why,  look  you,  our  king  is  as 
full  of  surprises  as  a  lover  is  of  lies.  'Twas  only 
yestermorn  as  I  was  doing  service  with  the 
wine,  his  majesty  inquired  of  me  an  my  stock  were 
prospering.  "Marry",  quoth  I,  "you  mean  my  wife, 
your  majesty."  "Marry",  quoth  he,  "I  mean  your 
brood."  "Marry,"  quoth  I,  begging  his  grace's  hu 
mility,  "I  have  not  any!"  "Marry,"  quoth  he,  "then 
go  and  get  thee  some,  and  be  your  wife  issueless 
go  divorce  her  and  wive  thee  with  another.  There 
must  be  soldiers  for  my  army."  Seeing  'tis  our  king 
that  tells  me  this  I  have  already  found  me  a  new 
rib  and  forsaken  the  old.  What  say  you  to  this  all  ? 

Second  Servant.  To  my  mind,  he  is  a  wise  king. 
An  he  counselled  me  so,  I'd  bless  him  most  heart 
ily.  I  have  a  wife  . 

First  Servant.  But  let's  not  grow  idle.  Here 
comes  the  Master  of  the  Cellar.  (First  servant  goes 
up  stage.) 

Enter  Master  of  Cellar. 


90        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Master  of  Cellar.  More  Burgundy  for  the  third 
table.  Make  haste!  Why  stand  you  there  fiddle- 
fuddling? 

Second  Servant.     We  taste,  master,  we  taste. 

Master  of  Cellar.     What  say  you  there? 

Second  Servant.     We  haste,  master,  we  haste. 

Master  of  Cellar.     Come,  this  is  no  time  to  loiter. 

(Exit  Second  Servant.     Enter  Third  Servant.} 

Third  Servant.  The  Roussillon's  about  gone, 
master. 

Master  of  Cellar.  Well,  let  it  go  for  all  my 
tasting.  The  beverage  is  much  too  heavy  for  these 
light  wits;  and  in  some  of  them  the  oil's  above  the 
water.  Ere  the  night  is  wasted  there'll  be  many  a 
pretty  sight  to  mark,  and  hold  one's  tongue  over. 
Wine  wears  no  breeches,  I  tell  you,  and  I  doubt  not 
but  it  shows  a  man  as  he  is.  Let  us  say,  as  seeing  as 
how  it  is,  a  person  is  normal,  sober  and  therefore 
wise.  Now  place  a  flagon  before  him.  Mark  de 
velopments.  The  first  glass  is  a  sail  trimmer;  it 
makes  him  buoyant.  The  second  will  make  him 
good-natured,  neighborly  and  cheery;  the  third,  fam 
iliar  and  doting, — familiar  and  doting,  I  said. 

Third  Servant.  I'm  listening,  master,  "familiar 
and  doting!" 

Master  of  Cellar.  The  third,  familiar  and  dot 
ing  ;  the  fourth  will  begin  to  fire  him ;  the  fifth 
makes  him  a  lion,  restless  and  keen;  the  sixth,  saucy 
and  peevish;  art  thou  listening? — 

Third  Servant.     Ay,  ay,  master,  the  seventh. 

Master  of  Cellar.     The  seventh ! 

Third  Servant.      (Hastily.}     The  eighth,  master. 

Master  of  Cellar.  The  sixth,  you  dog!  The 
sixth ! 


ACT  II  91 

Third  Servant.  Ay,  the  sixth,  as  you  say,  mas 
ter,  the  sixth, — as  you  say. 

Master  of  Cellar.  The  seventh  will  make  him 
giddy  and  foolish ;  the  eighth  sees  him  a  chattering 
ape ;  the  ninth  a  swine,  wallowing  in  his  own  mire. 

Third  Servant.  And  how  make  you  of  those  that 
stay  sober  after  the  tenth? 

Master  of  Cellar.  We  make  nothing  of  them, 
for  in  their  case  it  is  simply  the  pouring  out  of  one 
flask  into  another.  Can  a  bottle  of  wine  ever  be 
guzzled,  eh?  (Nudging  Third  Servant.) 

Third  Servant.     No. 

Master  of  Cellar.  Neither  can  they.  'But  we 
must  be  hustling.  The  king  will  be  here  in  no 
time.  (Exeunt  both.) 

The  portieres  are  drawn  and  discover: 

SCENE  6 — The  Banquet  Hall.  Brilliantly  light 
ed.  Tables  decked.  Some  guests  are  at  the  table, 
drinking  and  toasting.  Among  them  are  Pellas,  St. 
Francis,  Lords  from  Britain,  Lords  from  France, 
and  representatives  of  other  countries. 

Enter  Berkeley  and  Brabant. 

Berkeley.  (Signifying  to  a  group  of  men.)  Is 
not  that  my  Lord  of  France? 

Brabant.  That  is  he.  Let's  to  acknowledge 
him.  Our  commission  can  be  given  over  in  less  than 
several  words. 

(St.  Francis  is  seen  to  rise  from  table  and  come 
forward.) 

Berkeley.     Here  is  St.  Francis  approaching. 

Brabant.     Look  not  to  him! 

St.  Francis.  Hail,  dear  comrades!  How  do  you 
this  gay  night?  My  sight,  wasted  in  the  search 


92        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

of  you,  returns  with  your  return! 

Berkeley.  (Dryly.)  We  are  pleased  to  see  you, 
my  lord. 

St.  Francis.  Your  absence  should  have  made  you 
rich;  eh,  my  lords? 

Berkeley.     What  does  my  lord  mean? 

St.  Francis.  (Sarcastically.)  What?  Oh— 
when  Tarquin  fled  from  Rome — 

Brabant.  Oh,  that!  The  Prince  is  well,  but 
weak.  More,  there's  nothing. 

St.  Francis.  (Disappointed.)  Indeed?  I  await 
ed  better.  But  we'll  wine  together,  no,  my  lords? 
Let's  be  of  this  merriment  that's  careless  of  all 
cares.  I  owe  you  a  double  pledge. 

Pellas.  Pause,  Francis.  Is  not  your  place  with 
us? 

St.  Francis.  Oh,  pardon,  sire,  the  advantage  is 
to  me.  I  meant  to  be  near  you  soon.  ( To  Brabant 
and  Berkeley.)  Your  pardon,  both.  (Turning  to 
Pellas.)  Are  these  my  lords  from  Britain? 

Pellas.  These  are  our  noble  lords.  Study  to  be 
of  service  to  them,  sir.  They  are  men  of  rare  and 
deserving  qualities. 

(Berkeley  and  Brabant  in  the  meanwhile  go  over 
to  the  Lord  of  France's  table.) 

St.  Francis.  (Greeting  the  lords.)  My  father's 
praise  does  not  overleap  your  worth.  (Following 
Berkeley  with  his  eyes.)  I  know  you  both,  my  lords, 
and  hope  soon  for  better  entertainment  from  you. 

Lords.     That  is  our  best  desire. 

St.  Francis.  No  better  than  my  best.  (He  goes 
up  stage  and  joins  Berkeley  and  Brabant.) 

Lords.  (To  Pellas.)  We  are  not  deceived  in 
your  son.  He  hardly  contradicts  what  his  fame  has 


ACT  II  93 

prepared  us  for. 

Pellas.  I  am  glad  you  take  him  so.  Better 
exchange  of  thoughts  will  better  your  mutual  re 
spect.  (To  the  general  company.}  My  lords,  be  not 
given  over  to  the  serious.  Give  to  the  hour  its 
forthcoming,  and  do  not  save  the  wine.  Let  this 
night  be  sweet  to  every  moment,  nor  so  soon 
forgot. 

A  Lord.  What  may  detain  his  majesty  from  our 
midst  ? 

Pellas.  We  cannot  set  upon  the  unusual.  But 
be  satisfied,  my  lords,  his  grace  will  attend  us  pres 
ently.  Drink,  gentlemen! 

France.     Your  health,  my  Lord  of  Britain. 
Britain.     To  you,  France!     I  drink  to  our  mu 
tual  understanding,  may  it  ever  be  undisturbed. 

France.  To  our  mutual  love,  may  it  know  no 
cessation. 

All  drink.     General  applause.    Sennet. 
Enter  Melmoth.     Acclamations. 
Melmoth.      (To  trumpeters  at  the  door.)     Peace, 
Peace !    Will  you  be  silent  ? 

Pellas.     Accept   these   fair   acclaims,   most   royal 

liege, 

As  the  general  expression  of  the  company, 
Which  is  our  honor. 

The   noble   lords   of    the   several   states   as 
sembled, 

Pledge  you  their  fidelity,  amity  and  love, 
The  which  be  gracious  to  acknowledge. 
Melmoth.     Thank  them  more  than  once.  What's 
here,   Pellas?     What  special  thing  is  it  to-night? 
'Tis  hard  to  think.    Why  these  loud  ventures,  these 
rich   brocades,    these   frames,   these   fashions,   these 


94        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

hangings  and  ornaments,  that  by  their  overness  make 
the  virtue  of  the  eye  a  burden  upon  the  sense?  I 
cannot  think. 

Pellas.  My  lord,  you  know  full  well.  This  ban 
quet — to  our  honor. 

Melmoth.  Ay,  and  what  will  come  of  it? 
(Laughs  strangely.)  You  need  not  answer.  Where's 
the  wine  that  I  may  pledge  the  lords? 

Pellas.      (Anxiously.)      Here,  my  lord. 

Melmoth.     That's  so     ...     let  me  see.     .     . 
let  me  see     . 

Pellas.  (To  the  company.)  Gentlemen,  your 
present  favor.  (To  Melmoth.)  Will  it  please 
your  majesty  to  grace  the  table?  Here's  your  place. 

Melmoth.      (Approaching  table.)      Pour  out  the 
wine.      There   always   should   be   wine.      'Tis   the 
nectar  of  the  mortal  gods,  and  makes  them  live. 
(Page  pours  out  wine.) 

Pellas.  So  it  please  you,  here's  your  place,  your 
majesty. 

Melmoth.  (Abstractly.)  It  filters  through  des 
pair  leaving  no  less  to  settle  at  the  bottom. 

Pellas.  (Anxiously.)  I  have  not  heard  you,  my 
lord. 

First  Lord.     What  says  his  majesty? 

Second  Lord.  Nothing  ordinary.  It  seems  to 
me,  he  is  not  so  much  with  us,  to-night,  as  beyond 
us. 

Melmoth.     It    eases    the    bonds    of    resolve,    the 

making  of, 

And  the  carrying  out.    Therein  the  will, 
Into  an  unsufficing  sleep,  suffers  the  brain ; 
And  this  unraveled  state  breeds  things 


ACT  II  95 

Which  the  fresh,  uncoated  senses  think  not 
of. 

Then  there  must  be  wine,  and  wine  enough 

To  clinch  all  waking. 

( Takes  up  cup  and  sets  it  down  again.    All 
the  company  do  the  same.) 

Pah!     There's  living  here  and  life  in  noth 
ing! 

The  struggle's  in  the  waking  and  the  world  ; 

The  tossing  and  the  fretting  and  the  stir. 

Then,  to  sleep,  and  lose  the  sense  of  all, 

Waving  them  far  from  the  soldierly  soul 

And  gaining  the  while  by  recess. 

Sleep !    This  vessel  cannot  give  of  it,  Pellas ; 

Nor  can  it  take  from  me  the  unhealthy  fan 
cies 

That  inhabit  my  daily  dreams. 

Thought,  World,  Love,  and  Excellent  Ex 
citement  ! — 

Who  knows  what  chance  may  work  or  let 
alone? —     (Pause.) 

Ho !    Who'll  drink  with  me,  what !     ( Takes 

up  cup.) 

First  Lord.  Our  King  is  either  merry  or  mad. 
Second  Lord.  See,  he  sets  down  his  cup  again. 
Melmoth.  (Passes  hand  over  his  brow.)  Why, 

I  cannot  reach  the  cup  but  to  my  lips 

And  then  must  set  it  down. 

There's  something  weighs  upon  us  here,  and 
stops 

The  effort  of  the  heart.     What  is  it? 

.     Oh!     (All  rise.) 

First  Lord.     (To  Pellas.)     Address  his  majesty, 
your  lordship. 


96        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Second  Lord.  We  seem  unsuited  to  this  hour; 
I  pray  we  go. 

Pellas.  Gentlemen,  be  composed.  The  worries 
of  the  state  have  told  upon  his  majesty.  Resume 
your  places,  honored  guests.  This  cannot  survive 
the  moment.  (To  Melmoth.)  My  liege,  I  entreat 
you,  recall  yourself.  There's  nothing  here,  nor  that 
which  should  perplex  you.  Believe  not  you  cannot 
drink. 

Melmoth.  Nay,  I  cannot,  though  my  breath  be 
like  the  blistering  sirroc,  and  my  throat,  the  Libyan 
Desert.  I  cannot  drink! 

Pellas.  This  is  most  strange.  How  is  it  with 
you,  my  lord  ?  You  are  not  wont  to  be  affected  so. 
Your  guests  would  claim  their  host.  They  are 
most  anxious  for  your  cheer.  Speak  to  them. 

Melmoth.  What's  this  before  me,  ha!  .  .  . 
'Tis  not  the  eye  so  much  which  catches  at  it,  as 
the  seeing  soul. 

First  Lord.  What  is  there  most  evident,  is  con 
science,  not  matter.  He  speaks  to  a  sick  fancy, 
nothing  else.  See  now! 

(A  vision  of  Satan  appears  to  Melmoth.} 
Melmoth.     Why,    thou   com'st   not   now!      The 

time's  unripe, 
And   thou   look'st   green   and   sickly   to   the 

eye 
That  beholds  thee  ere  thy  moment.     Dissolve 

again, 

And  incorporate  thyself  with  what  thou  art, 
The  Topheth-breathing  air. — 
Thou  canst  not  say  that  Melmoth's  failed; 
He  is  yet  mighty,   firm,   like  the   unribbed 
rock 


ACT  II  97 

With  nature  torn  from  him.     I  tell  thee 
I'll  yet  do  it.    Go  then  away,  and  cease 
To     stand    betwixt     the   eyesight     and    the 

sight, — 

I   cannot   see   beyond.      Avaunt,   thou   hell- 
abort  ! 

Thou  hangst  like  miasma  upon  the  brain, 
Confounding  it!  Avaunt,  thou  chokest  me! — 
(Satan  disappears.) 

First  Lord.     See,  there,  his  majesty  falls! 
Second    Lord.     Give    o'er    with    the    wine,    for 
shame ! 

A  Lord.     There  is  no  meaning  in  this. 
Mehnoth.     Hold  off  and  fear  to  approach  me! 
Lord.     'Twould  be  improper  to  remain  here  long 
er.     Such  exhibitions  of  the  mind's  terrors  will  re 
sent  witness.     Let  us  pass  into  the  other  chamber. 
A  Lord.     Shall  we  retire? 

Pellas.     I    know    not    how    to    answer   you,    my 
lords. 

Melmoth.     Whereon  do  you  gape?     What  have 
you  seen,  that  you  look  so  upon  me?    Rise  not  from 
your  chairs!     Sit!     Sit!     Pour  out  the  wine  and  I 
will  drink  with  you  all  till  the  eye  is  heavy  and  the 
sense    is    numb    and    the    body    limp    with    surfeit. 
Wine,  wine,  wine  and  drown  the  world ! 
Pellas.     Oh,  you  are  not  well,  my  lord. 
Melmoth.      (Calmly.)      'Tis   the   music,    Pellas. 

Let  the  music  cease. 

It  forces  phantoms  broad  upon  our  visions 
That  tend  to  childhood.     There  we  dream, 
And   there  our  hearts  loose  up  their  close- 
braced  ingrains; 


98        MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Let  the  feelings  through  that  will  no  more  be 

stemmed. — 

Why  does  it  not  cease? 
Pellas.     The  music  has  ceased,  my  lord. 
A  Lord.     The  rise  to  greatness  drags  with  it  the 
troop  of  anxieties  that  were  before,  only  so  much 
the  fold. 

Another  Lord.     This  is  no  common  fear  that  he 
has  shown.    Look  yet  again ! 

(Satan   appears.) 
Melmoth.     What,   again !     Dark   genius  of  my 

soul,  what  will  you? 
Speak,  what  will  you?     I  fear  thee  not! 
Satan.     Melmoth,    thou    art   weakening. 
Melmoth.     Thou  liest  deep  in  thy  thrice-damned 

throat ! 

Nor  heaven  nor  earth,  nor  the  high  hour  of 
doom 

(Guests  begin  to  leave.) 
Can  break  me  now.    Let  vast  ruin  enter 
And  eat  away  this  residence  of  clay, 
This  heart  of  iron  will  not  budge  to  see 
The  ant-heap  thrown.      Give  me  the  brand 

from  hell, 

Myself  will  fire  the  world  and  laugh  to  see't 
Pass  into  a  fume.  (Lords  exeunt.) 

Satan  disappears.     Melmoth  and  Pellas  re 
main  alone. 

Pellas.     What  is  it?     Tell  me,  my  good  lord. 
What    avails   yo*ur   speech?      See   you    any 
thing?     Whom   do  you   address?     Your 
manner  has  sent  the  guests  away  and  spoil 
ed  the  night. 
Melmoth.     Pellas,  what  have  you  seen? 


ACT  II  99 

Pellas.     Not  what  you  seem  to  have  seen. 

Melmoth.     Nor  heard? 

Pellas.     No  one,  my  liege,  but  you. 

Melmoth.     Pellas,  my  brain  is  sick.     Go,  Pellas, 

before  me — 
(To  himself.)     There  is  no  reason  stronger 

than  her  death! — 
She  must  be  put  away,  for  living, 
She  makes  labour  to  the  mind! — 
Go,  Pellas,  I'll  be  alone.     (Exit  Pellas.\ 
Resolves  bend  up!    dark  spirits  to  mine  aid! 
And  every  agency  of  starless  deeds 
Know  my  deep  design  and  secure  it  fast. 
There  is  an  only  and  an  only  way, — 
And  that  to  follow! 

Curtain 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.     A  room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  St.  Francis  and  Toussan. 
St.  Francis.     Here  we  are,  Toussan,  like  fortune's 

fools  ; 
Her  whims  satisfied,   she  has  cast  us  from 

her  favor. 

Toussan.     Tell  me!     Tell  me,  my  sweet  lord — 
St.    Francis.      Dolora    has    discouraged    my    ad 
vances 

And  put  herself  wholly  beyond  me; 
And  what  have  I  not  done  to  possess  her! — 
Betrayed  her  brother  to  fetch  to  myself  his 

titles  ; 

Risked  the  swords  of  conspirators ;   estranged 
From  me  the  affections  of  my  father; 
Played  false  to  the  Prince,  and  doubly  false 
To  the  King.     All  of  which,  steeping  us  in 

danger, 
May  bring  us  nowhere!     Toussan,   I   have 

jeopardized 

My  soul  and  nothing  comes  of  it! 
Toussan.  Merry,  my  lord,  are  you  a  man,  the 
stronger  vessel,  and  boast  of  the  powers  masculine? 
And  she  be  a  woman,  the  weaker  vessel,  of  con 
struction  feminine?  And  that  first  cannot  rule  that 
second  ? — Bah ! 

100 


ACT  III  101 

St.  Francis.  Toussan,  you  shall  not  pique  me; 
I'm  grown  reckless  of  myself, 

Toussan.  Quality,  my  sweet  lord,  quality; 
and  that  the  quality  of  decision,  of  steadiness.  The 
strong  man!  (Contemptibly.)  The  high  cox- 
combed  rooster!  What  will  you  do?  Not  eat 
lizards?  Not  swallow  fire?  Not  do  with  ghosts? 

St.  Francis.  Toussan,  this  time,  Toussan,  you'll 
have  no  cause  to  whine  over  me  and  plague  me  with 
your  interrogatives.  If  fairly  she  cannot  be  ruled, 
then  foully  must  she  be  schooled. 

Toussan.     Fine!     Fine!     Fine! 

St.  Francis.  But,  win  her  or  lose  her,  Toussan, 
I'll  not  neglect  our  common  ends  and  interests;  I'll 
see  ever  to  push  onward  and  upward. 

Toussan.     Fine!     Fine!     Fine! 

St.  Francis.  Toussan,  my  word  on  it,  Toussan, 
I  shall  school  her  to-night! 

Toussan.  Very  fair,  very  fair,  my  sweet  lord. 
But  how,  my  sweet  lord?  By  thy  soul's  sole  sweet 
lady?  She  that's  known  thee  so  oft,  not  knowing 
thee  at  all  ?  Ay,  she  is  good  at  the  sport,  merry,  my 
lord ;  fine  for  the  having,  but  troublous  for  the  keep 
ing,  eh? 

St.  Francis.  Toussan,  thou  knowest  Cedrielle  .  .  . 

Toussan.    Merry,  my  lord,  thou  knowest  her. 

St.  Francis.  I  have  spoken  to  her  of  that,  but 
though  she  has  obeyed  me  in  other  matters,  I  cannot 
rule  her  in  this. 

Toussan.  'Cannot!'  'Cannot!'  Merry,  merry, 
my  lord!  'Cannot!'  And  you  the  power  mascu 
line? 

St.  Francis.  (Positively.)  I  can,  Toussan,  I 
can !  Toussan,  you  know  Francis  lets  not  the  morn- 


102      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

ing  wind  cool  off  his  last  night's  heat;  nor  for  any 
obstacle  does  he  couch  his  determinations.  You 
know  that! 

Toussan.  Well  and  verily.  The  rich  soil  whence 
thou  springest  makes  thee  what  thou  art.  I  knew 
thy  mother  thoroughly.  She  was  the  game-heart 
of  the  court,  and  merry! — Oh,  merry,  my  lord! 

St.  Francis.  They  say  she  made  my  father  a 
cuckold  and  so  I  was  born.  No,  Toussan? 

Toussan.  Ha,  ha;  heh,  ho!  But  there's  your 
jump- jenny  now.  Know  then  thy  methods,  sweet 
my  lord.  Be  thou  mastering  and  thou'lt  have  her 
yielding.  They  have  them  as  they  want  them. 
And,  not  to  take  the  teeth  from  the  old  saw,  bring  a 
whip  to  a  woman  and — thou  knowest  the  rest.  (Exit 
Toussan  laughing.} 

Enter  Cedrielle. 

Cedrielle.     Francis,  my  lord! 

St.  Francis.  Madam,  why  do  you  haunt  me? 
Why  do  you  ever  force  yourself  upon  my  leisure? 
It  is  not  becoming  to  one  of  your  station  to  be  so 
unmindful  of  her  continence.  Do  not  gaze  upon 
me  with  that  sorry  look  as  if  I  had  killed  your 
father.  Prithee,  be  more  constrained. 

Cedrielle.  These,  your  raw  humors,  Francis,  1 
owe,  have  worn  on  me.  I'm  not  your  mirror  where 
you  can  play  off  your  moods  at  will.  Believe  not 
to  bend  me  to  your  easy  delights  when  they  are  for 
ward,  or  break  me  to  your  vagaries  as  one  doth  with 
a  blackamoor.  I'll  not  endure  the  least. 

St.  Francis.  Do  not,  madam,  and  it  shall  grieve 
me  least.  But, — no  more  of  it.  You  are  become 
nigh  unbearable. 

Cedrielle.     Oh,  thy  griefs  be  my  pleasure  as  my 


ACT  III  103 

words  are  thy  scorn. 

St.  Francis.  Thy  pleasures  be  my  scorn  as  my 
words  are  thy  grief. 

Cedrielle.  Oh,  I  can  as  easily  hate  you  as  love 
you. 

St.  Francis.     I  can  as  easily  skip  you  as  trip  you. 

Cedrielle.     Let  thy  griefs  cease  with  thee! 

St.  Francis.  And  thine,  never  with  thee,  sweet 
chuck. 

Cedrielle.     Oh,   hateful  deceiver! 

St.  Francis.  Oh,  charming  believer!  Madam, 
what  will  you  do? 

Cedrielle.     Ingrate,  what  have  you  done? 

St.  Francis.     That  which  hardly  affects  me. 

Cedrielle.     That  which  fairly  should  kill  thee. 

St.  Francis.  Tush,  tush,  Cedrielle!  I  have  not 
wronged  you  in  so  much  as  you  have  wronged  your 
self.  Yours  was  the  sin  and  mine  the  folly.  'Twere 
best  then,  as  'tis  easiest,  we  both  forget  that  hour 
which  knew  our  weakness. 

Cedrielle.  Oh,  in  that  hour  I  played  into  the 
hands  of  sin ;  threw  awray  for  the  pleasure  of  a 
cheap  moment  the  dearness  of  virtue,  as  'twere  a 
thing  we  could  miss.  I  rue  it!  Oh,  I  rue  it! 

St.  Francis.  How  goes  the  saying?  The  repent 
ance  of  a  

Cedrielle.  Insensible  man,  do  you  now  assume 
so  distant  a  responsibility  for  a  guilt  we  share  in 
alike?  I,  to  have  yielded  to  an  improper  affection, 
and  you  to  have  imposed  upon  me  with  studied 
troths  and  practised  wiles,  loving  without  love,  and 
sinning  without  beauty!  Where  it  will  serve  them 
best,  men  seek  to  forget;  the  things  that  shame 
their  memory,  they  erase  from  it.  But  women  can- 


104      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

not,  even  if  they  would. 

St.  Francis.     Tut,  tut. 

Cedrielle.  Base  inhumanity  that  could  swear  by 
heaven  looking  at  once  to  hell;  that  could  promise 
now  and  spit  upon  its  vows  so  soon  after! 

St.  Francis.  Forsooth,  madam,  I  know  not,  but 
at  the  time,  what  promises  I  made  were  not  with 
out  sincerity.  Perhaps  I  should  have  paused — but 
that's  a  wasted  thought.  If  nature  was  so  absolute 
with  us  she  could  not  be  controlled,  then  'tis  she,  not 
I,  that's  to  be  imputed.  In  truth,  when  the  heat  of 
the  instant  cooled,  I  repented  of  the  folly — 

Cedrielle.  Repented!  To  come  to  me  again? 
To  assail  me  with  new  protestations,  and  once  more 
beguile  me  into  accepting  thee?  This  is  pretty  re 
pentance!  Wast  not  so  long  ago  as  the  night  be 
fore  last,  you  sought  me  out ;  burdened  the  air  with 
your  easy  suspirations ;  entreated  like  one  de 
vout;  hung  upon  my  lips  as  the  robber  bee  upon  the 
blossom,  and  with  that  sure  audacity  which  insin 
cerity  alone  finds  it  in  itself  to  practice,  shared  the 
comforts  of  my  bed,  aggravating  crime  to  villainy? 
Wretch,  are  you  unmoved? 

St.  Francis.     Moved  to  strike  you. 

Cedrielle.  Crueler  than  your  tongue  are  you  that 
say  this.  Oh,  into  what  narrow  channels  has  your 
manhood  run?  Has  it  forsaken  you  completely, 
leaving  behind  naught  but  the  dregs  of  nature? 
What  manner  of  man  are  you  to  do  me  thus?  All 
that  I  have  yielded  of  myself — is  it  a  thing  to 
abuse  and  boast  of?  Will  you  now  cast  me  off 
as  one  discards  a  useless  habit  which  he  disdains  to 
wear  again?  They  say  that  love  engenders  love. 


ACT  III  105 

What  bitter  stuff  was  in  mine  that  it  brought  forth 
hatred  ? 

St.  Francis.  Cease,  I  pray  you.  You  set  the 
aggravation  above  the  error.  See  to  do  what  I 
have  bidden  you,  and  there  will  be  no  space  again 
for  such  protests. 

Cedrielle.  Oh,  never,  faithful  heart!  You  should 
be  clearer  than  the  morn,  more  crafty  than  the  fox, 
more  subtle  than  the  snake,  and  your  wisdom  should 
strive  to  the  age  of  the  basilisk  ere  you  will  find  me 
baby  to  a  gig.  No,  Francis!  Instantly  I  shall  be 
firm!  The  largeness  of  your  scheming  I  have  be 
gun  to  understand.  Her  shame  shall  not  dispute 
with  my  weakness,  nor  your  deed  be  upon  my  con 
science. 

St.  Francis.  What  folly  to  say  "no" !  Rather  be 
willing,  Cedrielle,  and  gentle  to  obey,  than  rebel 
lious  and  brought  to.  Know  that  I  have  conse 
quence  above  you,  which  urge  me  not  to  engage. 
To-night  you  will  leave  the  door  of  Dolora's  cham 
ber  free  to  entrance.  Thyself  keep  from  there.  If 
you  value  much  in  your  life,  value  my  instructions. 

(Re-enter  Toussan  at  door,  rubbing  his  hands 
gleefully.  Exeunt  St.  Francis  and  Toussan.) 

Cedrielle.  Oh  vile,  vile  thought!  Oh  wretched 
fate!  Oh  dismal  time!  He  would  command  me, 
revile  me,  cause  me  from  him,  and  yet  has  my  love. 
What  anomalous  things  are  we  to  suffer  so  and 
keep  silent;  to  fear  and  to  favor;  to  know  and  to 
be  helpless.  But  I'll  not  let  him  further  in  his 
strides.  The  door  shall  be  open  to  his  coming  but 
shut  against  his  going.  And  if  he  dare  approach 
Dolora  as  she  sleeps,  he'll  never  know  to  take  a 
better  step.  Yet  he  may  not  find  it  in  his  courage 


106      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

to  come.  Therefore  I'll  hold  these  fears  to  myself, 
lest  by  telling,  and  then  he  come  not,  'twill  bring 
on  complications.  Francis,  be  cautious  of  thy  step! 
Know  where  thou  goest! 

Curtain 

SCENE    2. — Grounds   adjoining   palace.        Night 
threatening. 

Enter  Dolora  and  Margaret. 
Dolora.     Wrap  my  cloak  about  me,  Margaret. 

How  chill  it  is! 

The  winds  make  commotion  with  the  air, 
Seeming  at  odds  with  the  world. 
See  how  love-mad  Boreas  rages  the  heavens 

through 

And  drives  yon  smoky  billows  before  him. 
Margaret.     He  must  be  a  knave,  being  so  loose, 
And  the  manner  he  disturbs  our  dress 
Makes  such  shame  to  the  modest  stars 
That — see,    they   hide   themselves. 

(Bells  toll.) 

Dolora.     I  pray  you,  pause. 
Margaret.     The  tower  bells,  madam. 
Dolora.     Count  the  many  times  they  speak. 
Margaret.     Five — six — seven — . 
Dolora.     Like    seven    knells.      How    they    ring 

into  the  soul! 

I  know  not  what  is  come  upon  me  now 
To  make  me  fearful.     These  are  presenti 
ments 

That  take  the  spirit  into  a  secret  world 
Yet  tell  it  naught.     Come,  Cedrielle  awaits 
us.     (They  go  out.) 


ACT  III  107 

SCENE  3 — The  same. 

Enter  from  castle,  Royce,  Dohlgrin,  Brabant  and 
Berkeley,  with  torches. 

Brabant.     A  dreary  night  this,  gentlemen! 

Dohlgrin.     A  favorable  one  to  our  designs. 

Brabant.  Who  should  think  so  fair  a  thought 
needs  be  executed  in  so  foul  a  night  to  make  it  a 
noble  deed! 

Royce.  Those  who  can  disjoin  darkness  from 
its  terrors. 

Berkeley.  Those  who  know  that  there  are 
secrets  in  the  world,  and  that  such  nights  have  their 
motives. 

Dohlgrin.  Gentlemen,  is  Francis  gone  from  the 
Palace? 

Royce.     No.     At  least,  I  think  not. 

Berkeley.     Then  he  may  hap  on  us  here? 

Dohlgrin.  Let  him.  His  safety  lies  in  his  avoid 
ing  us,  and  in  his  silence,  which  he  will  best  ob 
serve.  We  need  not  care  for  him.  Rather,  we 
should  look  to  resist  him — crush  him. 

Royce.  Rather,  Dohlgrin,  we  follow  the  ex 
ample  of  our  great  Preceptor,  and  resist  not  evil. 

Dohlgrin.  That  would  be  nobler  indeed.  And 
I  grant  you,  Royce,  that  evil  is  like  a  hurricane 
which  blows  itself  out  of  its  own  breath  even  after 
mountains  have  failed  to  stop  it;  yet,  in  halting  it, 
there  is  a  measure  of  delight,  akin  to  satisfaction, 
that  good  accomplished  succeeds  not  in.  So  is  it 
with  us  and  St.  Francis. 

Berkeley.     What  winds  are  up! 

Brabant.  And  this  cloud  descending!  It  comes 
on  murky. 


io8      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Royce.  Like  a  curtain  to  our  eagerness,  saving 
the  surprise  of  the  dawn. 

Brabant.  Gentlemen,  attend !  If  I  can  know 
their  forms  by  their  shadows,  these  are  our  friends. 

Royce.  Berkeley,  look  to  the  Tower  while  we 
receive  them. 

Voices.     (Without.)     Holla!     Holla! 

Royce.     Who's  there? 

Voices.  King's  men  and  friends  to  our  friends. 
Enter  Steele,  De  Forest  and  Edwin. 

Royce.     Then  to  us. 

De  Forest.  Royce?  Dohlgrin?  We  are  timely 
met. 

Edwin.  Not  the  best  time  to  be  abroad  in, 
gentlemen. 

Steele.  By  the  wine  and  the  wind,  I  vow,  better 
abroad  with  a  purpose  than  at  home  with  the  cat. 

Dohlgrin.  We  thank  you,  gentlemen,  you  do 
not  fail  our  need  of  you. 

Steele.  Oh,  those  that  think  of  the  days  for 
get  not  the  hours. 

Dohlgrin.  For  our  part,  those  that  forget  not 
the  hours,  make  rich  the  days. 

De  Forest.  'Each  man  to  his  own' — goes  it  not 
so? 

Royce.  Ay,  so  and  so;  but  you  are  indeed  most 
welcome. 

Edwin.     Has  the  signal  shown? 

Royce.     No,  we  may  expect  it  presently. 

Edwin.  This  night  encourages  doing  the  dar 
ing  deed. 

Steele.  Our  spirits  are  in  it,  if  our  heads  must 
hang  for  it. 

Royce.     Our   purpose   does   not  question   death; 


ACT  III  109 

and  is  so  exalted  it  draws  not  only  on  the  sap 
of  friendship  but  on  the  wine  of  love. 

De  Forest. — Gentlemen,  our  position  here  is  un 
certain. 

Brabant.  What  now?  What  may  the  matter 
be? 

De  Forest.  Crossing  the  bridge  on  our  way 
here — 

Dohlgrin.     You  were  challenged? 

De  Forest.  Not  that — we  suddenly  came  upon 
his  majesty — 

Brabant.     To-night ! 

De  Forest.     A  while  ago. 

Dohlgrin.     Unattended,  you  say? 

De  Forest.  Quite  alone.  We  passed  that  near 
to  him  and  to  our  several  salutes  he  gave  no  an 
swer. 

Royce.     Which  way  was  he  going,  towards  us? 

De  Forest.     Nay,  opposed  to  us. 

Steele.  You  mean  he  faced  us,  but  himself  was 
quite  motionless. 

De  Forest.  However,  when  we  turned  again  to 
see  him,  he  was  slowly  following  in  our  direction. 

Royce.     Intent  upon  you? 

De  Forest.     Hardly — 

Edwin.  Nay,  he  did  not  even  notice  us.  His 
head  was  bent  to  his  chest,  his  arms  locked  behind 
him ;  he  seemed  like  a  student  of  the  world  to  whom 
its  problem  was  too  bewildering. 

Berkeley.  Lights,  yonder!  (Lights  appear  in  the 
distance  and  vanish.) 

All.     Oh,  where? 

Berkeley.  Now  they  are  gone;  vanished  on  the 
instant ! 


no      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Royce.     How  did  they  show? 

Berkeley.  First,  two  of  no  duration;  then  a 
single  one  brighter  than  either,  which  held  until 
I  turned  to  you. 

Royce.  From  what  direction  showed  they,  from 
the  bay? 

Berkeley.  No;  more  surely  from  the  embank 
ment. 

Royce.  From  the  tower,  then.  Hold  steady  ob 
servation.  The  signal  will  be  repeated  presently. 
'Tis  decided,  then.  (To  Steele,  Edwin  and  De  For 
est.)  You  are  to  wait  in  readiness  at  the  appointed 
place.  We  count  on  you,  friends. 

De  Forest.  My  lords,  the  gravity  of  the  matter 
we  have  on  hand  forbids  any  waywardness  of  ac 
tion.  We  can  well  conceive  there's  much  hangs 
upon  this  night's  work. 

Dohlgrin.     The  fortune  of  an  empire! 

De  Forest.  Why,  then,  we  are  better  matched 
for  it. 

Royce.  Why  has  the  signal  not  again  appeared? 
Sure  it  was  not  from  the  bay  you  saw  the  light? 

Berkeley.     Certain  it  is. 

Royce.     But  in  this  direction,  no? 

Berkeley.  Ay,  even  where  the  tower  should  be. 

(Lights  show  again.) 

All.     See,  see,  there  it  shows  again! 

Royce.     This  second  is  confirmation  of  the  first. 

Steele.  Haste  we,  then;  for  a  while,  my  lords, 
good  night. 

Berkeley,  Royce  and  Dohlgrin.  Good  night. 
(Exeunt  De  Forest,  Edwin  and  Steele.) 

Berkeley.     I'm  glad  we  thought  of  them,  Royce. 

Royce.     Ay,   they  are  proper  men  when   proper 


ACT  III  in 

circumstances  rise  to  challenge  their  worth.  This  is 
to  them  not  so  much  a  duty  as  a  privilege. — Who's 
there ! 

(Enter  St.  Francis  and  Toussan,  with  torch.) 

Brabant.  Here  comes  a  viper.  To  think  of  his 
rascality  is  to  desire  to  end  it. 

Berkeley.  Be  discreet,  Brabant;  let  fall  your 
sword. 

St.  Francis.  Who's  here?  Aha!  (Agitated  on 
perceiving  them.)  What?  So  late  in  such  a  night? 
Conspiracy  that  counts  such  men  amongst  it  glances 
at  crowned  greatness  only.  What's  ado?  Where's 
the  King? 

Dohlgrin.  The  King  is  where  he  is.  We  are 
neither  his  guardians  nor  his  keepers. 

Royce.     You  do  not  ask  for  the  Prince,  my  lord. 

St.  Francis.     The  Prince? — The  Prince? — heh — 

Toussan.  Merry,  my  lords,  he's  been  dinning 
"prince"  into  this  ear  till  I  am  deaf  on  both. 

St.  Francis.  Toussan  speaks  truly.  If  John 
were  ever  distant  from  my  mind,  I  should  regret 
it.  What's  with  him  ?  What  bring  you  from  him  ? 

Dohlgrin.  (Dubiously.)  Be  he  above  the 
earth — 

St.  Francis.     Go  to,  how  you  speak ! 

Dohlgrin.  (To  the  others.)  Shall  we  let  him 
hear?  'Tis  a  long  tale,  St.  Francis.  To  begin 
with — 

Toussan.  The  king  has  claim  upon  your  time,  my 
lord. 

St.  Francis.  True,  you  remind  me,  Toussan.  We 
must  find  him  insantly. 

All.     Instantly! 

St.  Francis.     Ay,  our  purpose  is  immediate. 


ii2      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dohlgrin.     Your  purpose  with  the  King  is  imme 
diate? 

St.    Francis.      (Confused.)       That    is,     there — 

(Turns  to  Toussan  appealingly.) 
Toussan.     Ay,  immediate,  as  his  majesty  awaits 
us  in  his  chamber. 

St.  Francis.     That's  so,  friends. 
Dohlgrin.     How  'in  his  chamber'  when  at  pres 
ent  he  is  abroad? 

St.  Francis.     Abroad? 

Toussan.     (Hastily.)     It   does   not   matter,   eh, 
merry,  my  lord?    We'll  await  him,  then. 

St.    Francis.     Yes,    we'll    await    him.      Friends, 
when  shall  we  meet  again?    To-morrow? 
Royce.     A  proper  time  enough. 
Brabant.      (Aside.)     Oh,  and  that  should  be  the 
last. 

St.  Francis.     We  leave  you  then;  good  night. 

(Exeunt  St.  Francis  and  Toussan.) 
Brabant.     He  plays  both  hands  as  false,  lying, 
traitorous  to  the  king  as  to  our  cause.     I'm  sorry, 
we  should  have  killed  him  here. 

Royce.     There's  no  regretting  it,   Brabant. 
Death  itself  is  hardly  punishment; 
But  death  that  trips  up 
Great   ambition,    high    hopes,    schemes   pro 
jected, 

At  a  time  when  life  is  measured  by  the  great 
er  compass, 

Then  'tis  something — 
Then  'tis  part  of  heaven's  intercession 
Here  on  earth. 

Enter  Melmoth. 
Dohlgrin.      Who    is    this    that    enters — not    the 


ACT  III  113 

king? 

Berkeley.     Your  eyesight's  keen.     That  surely  is 
the  king. 

Dohlgrin.     Let  us  nearer  to  this  end,  my  lords. 

We  may  escape  attention  and  so,  depart. 
Royce.     Nay,  he  has  seen  us  already.     Raise  the 

torch  aloft; 

But  let  our  countenances  be  familiar 
With  their  native  hue,  lest,  being  pale, 
They  betray   our   thoughts.      (Torches  are 

raised. ) 

How  does  your  majesty? 
Melmoth.     When  had  we  such  a  night  ?    History 

attests 

That  the  elements  go  ever  with  great  events 
In  the  lives  of  men.    When  had  we  such  a 

night  ? 
Royce.     When  Richard  slew  his  old  and  infirm 

father 

To  ascend  the  sooner  to  the  throne. 
Melmoth. — Then  laid  the  self-same  hand  upon 

himself,  not  so? 

Royce.     Ay;  destroyed  in  his  own  destruction. 
Melmoth.     So  is  it  with  all  of  us.    The  Nemesis 
Of    self-ideal.      Give    me    good    night,    my 

lords. 

The  end's  indeed  the  poetry  of  life; 
For  in  the  consummation,  that  rare  dream, 
Through  which  the  soul  in  vital  harmony 
With  all  the  world  is  led, —  is  curtained  o'er. 
Give  me  good-night,  my  lords. 
There'll    be    no    hunting    to-night    in    the 

heavens ; 
Orion  sleeps,  and  the  hounds  follow  no  trail. 


ii4      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Give  me  good  night — but  the  Lion,  the  Lion 

shall  rule! 
Royce.     Will  not  his  majesty  enter  to  the  palace? 

This  night  hath  a  thousand  humors — 

Not  one  to  be  trusted. 
Melmoth.     No;  give  me  good  night. 

(All  go  out  but  Melmoth.) 

Beauty  and  loveliness  shall  pass  away 

This  night  ere  dreams  are  ended.  And  a  star, 

Like  the  early  light  which  fails  the  dead- 
new  born, 

When  given  to  the  bosom  of  the  world, 

Will  go  out  of  heaven. 

Then    will     come    sorrow,     anguish,     and 
remorse, — 

And  that  puts  out  the  light!     I  go  to  thee 
now — 

Thee  whom  my  soul  would  embrace,  and  my 
hand 

Must  destroy!     I  go  to  thee  like  one  un 
taught 

In  his  own  instructions — and  bewildered! 

But  life  must  out,  stars  fall,  and  ruin  come. 

There  is  no  pausing  now  so  near  the  end — 

There's  nothing  else. 

Awake,  Dolora! 

For  thine  shall  be  the  everlasting  sleep 

Hereafter! 

Curtain 

SCENE  4.  Dolora  s  bedchamber.  Up  stage,  cen 
ter,  is  a  bed  with  drawn  curtains.  Door  to  left 
leads  to  ante-chamber.  Two  casement  windows,  to 


ACT  III  115 

back  of  stage.     A  bureau;  a  couch;  a  long  upright 
mirror;  chairs,  etc. 

Enter  Dolor  a  and  Cedrielle. 

Dolor  a.  Cedrielle,  we'll  at  once  to  bed  and 
anticipate  this  night  of  its  terrors. 

Cedrelle.  So  soon,  madam?  'Tis  earlier  than 
your  wont. 

Dolora.  I  have  such  unwholesome  fancies  usurp 
ing  my  quieter  thoughts,  they  caution  me  against  this 
wakefulness.  (Seats  herself  on  couch.)  Restless 
grown,  fretful  and  peevish,  why  should  I  burden 
you  with  my  reproaches  and  make  you  concerned 
with  me  ?  Unfasten  this  clasp.  It  seems  that  heaven 
then  asserts  itself  over  us  when  we  are  ready  to 
think  ourselves  above  it.  Look  out  and  see  if  it  doth 
rain. 

Cedrielle.     I  will.       (Goes  to  window.) 

Dolora.  How  oft  does  the  condition  of  the 
weather  accord  with  that  of  the  heart!  Surely  there 
is  sympathy  in  nature. — How  is  it  out? 

Cedrielle.  (At  window.)  There's  a  moist  wind 
blowing  and  the  night  is  rolled  up  in  such  a  heavy 
mist,  it  cannot  be  seen  through.  A  night  one  feels 
rather  than  sees.  (Dolora  approaches  window.) 

Dolora.  It  is  indeed  as  you  say.  At  times, 
Cedrielle,  life  is  even  as  this  night,  dark,  dark  and 
failing  of  an  end. — Come,  help  me  off  with  these 
pale  trinkets.  Without  a  memory  to  link  them  to 
our  hearts  they  lose  their  original  charm.  (Thun 
der.)  Oh!  I  fear  this  night  beyond  all  reason. 

Cedrielle.  Why  do  you,  madam?  Why  do  you 
start  so  at  the  least  disturbance  of  nature,  which 
when  'tis  over,  is  but  an  airy  nothing.  These  agita- 


n6      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

tions  are  your  own. 

Dolor  a.  Nay,  Cedrielle,  you  are  pale  yourself; 
and  besides  I  do  observe  in  your  glance,  to-night, 
something  quite  unbrave,  which  comes  not  of  the 
weather,  meseems.  What  is  it,  if  it  is  anything? 

Cedrielle.  Indeed  it  is  not  anything.  If  I  am 
pale,  then  take  it  I  have  borrowed  something  of 
your  own  unrest.  Humors  are  persuasive;  they 
league  disposition  with  disposition,  be  they  anywhat 
opposed.  Our  hearts  are  of  such  rare  textures,  like 
sensitive  chords,  they  stir  to  the  unruly  wind  as  to 
the  balm.  And  the  mind,  like  the  weather-cock,  goes 
the  way  of  the  wind. 

Dolor  a.     Nothing  more? 

Cedrielle.     No,  in  good  faith! 

Dolor  a.     Sure? 

Cedrielle.     Sure. 

Dolora. — Help  me  drag  off  this  heavy  robe  which 
clings  like  a  cerecloth  about  my  body.  (Pause.)  My 
father,  Cedrielle,  I  fear,  will  not  survive  the  week. 

Cedrielle.  He  is  old,  madam;  well  above  eighty 
years. 

Dolora.  But  loves  not  life  the  less,  God  wot. 
Make  fast  the  casement-windows,  Cedrielle,  while 
I  go  undress.  'Tis  raining  now,  I  think.  (Dolora 
goes  into  ante-chamber.) 

Cedrielle.     The  heart  must  have  a  double  lease 

of  life- 
Else  it  must  fail  us  midway.     Oh,  this  sus 
pense 
Doth  make  me  conscience-ridden,  and  throws 

me 
Into  a  fever-heat  of  doubt. 

Dolora.     (From  within.)     Cedrielle — ? 


ACT  III  117 

Cedrielle.     Yes,  madam — ? 

Dolora.     What  do  you  think,  do  ever  our  dreams 

tell  us  anything? 
Cedrielle.     Very  often  they  do. 
Dolora.     Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  say  so! 
Cedrielle.     She    is    in    better   vein.        (Aloud.) 

Dolora,  you'll  not  retire  so  soon?     (No  an 
swer.)     What,  Dolora? — 

Mine  own   eyes  stick,   and   my  limbs  need 
effort 

To  sustain  them.    But  the  night's  too  full 

And  eloquent  of  fateful  prophecies 

To  let  guilty  sleep,  that  steals  his  watch, 

Summon  the  weary  sense,  and  overpow'r  it. 

Nor  must  I  let  her  sleep! 
Dolora. — But  are  they  real,  Cedrielle? 
Cedrielle.     I  do  not  hear  you,  madam. 
Dolora.     Do  ever  our  dreams  seek  to  betray  us? 
Cedrielle.     Not  selfishly,  madam. — Are  you  un 
dressed  ? 

Dolora.     How,  then? 
Cedrielle.     "How,  then"  what? 
Dolora.     Our  dreams,  goosy. 
Cedrielle.     Oh,  our  dreams! 
Dolora.     Yes.     Do  they  ever  seek  to  betray  us? 
Cedrielle.     I  don't  know — I  think     .     .     .     but 

what  matters  it,  anyhow? 

Dolora.      (Appearing    at    the    door.)       Do    you 

know,  Cedrielle,  Melmoth  came  to  me  yesternight? 

Cedrielle.     Here,  madam?     I  did  not  see  him — 

Dolora.  Like  one  forth  from  a  sleep  of  troubled 

dreams, 

A  spirit  leading. 

Without  the  outward  show  of  royalty 


ii8      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

He  came, 

And  yet  more  kingly  never  did  he  seem. 
His  left  hand  held  a  sword  without  an  edge ; 
And  in  his  right  there  was  a  flowing  cup 
Which  he  would  feign  compel  unto  his  lips 
And  was  not  able. 

Cedrielle.     Strange  you  dream  of  him  thus! 
(Dolora  withdraws  again  into  ante-chamber.} 
Oh,  poor  heart,  she  knows  not  how,  alas, 
These  silent  hours  may  play  about  her  soul, 
Enacting  things  that  broad  and  wholesome 

day 

Would    shame    to    look   on.     What    is    in 
nocence 

When  its  dear  virtue  hangs  upon  the  wind 
And  caprice  of  chance?     So  little  valued; 
So  great,  its  possession  lost! 
(Re-enter  Dolora  in  loose  gown,  Yeady  to  retire.} 
Oh,  Dolora,  I  told  you  once  that  you  had  beauty 
of  sufficient  allowance  to  win  you  a  prince,  but  you 
have  it  in  that  rich  measure,  I  would  for  your  own 
sake,  you  had  less  of  it,  that  you  could  be  more 
happy. 

Dolora.     Do  you  think,  then,  my  beauty  would 
even  now  hold  the  survey  of  a  dispassionate  suitor? 
Nay,  rather,  I'll  not  ask  it.     Take  up  your  instru 
ment,  Cedrielle,  and  play  while  I  try  to  lose  the 
sense  of  reality.     (Reclines  on  bed.) 
Cedrielle.     Dolora — 
Dolora.     What,  Cedrielle? 

Cedrielle.      (Anxiously.)     Do  not  sleep,  Dolora. 
Dolora.     Why,  you  goose? 

Cedrielle.     I    don't   know,    but — (Imploringly.) 
do  not  sleep,  I  pray! 


ACT  III  119 

Dolora.  (Raising  herself.)  How  now,  what's 
the  matter  with  you,  Cedrielle? 

Cedrielle.     Oh!     I'd  rather  we  were  together. 

Dolora.     Why,  so  we  are. 

Cedrielle.  I  mean  that  I  should  remain  up  with 
you;  that  we  should  waste  the  night  in  words;  tell 
each  other  tales;  read,  and  sing,  and  call  up  pleas 
ant  memories,  and  so,  wear  weariness  away. 

Dolora.     Go  to,  you  are  whimsical.     I  am  tired. 

Cedrielle.      (Nervously.)      The  king,  Dolora! — 

Dolora.  (Playfully.)  Is  graciously  bestowed  to 
slumber.  Thus  he  lies,  (Makes  a  certain  posture.) 
his  person  divested  of  its  terrible  greatness.  Per 
chance  thus  he  lies — or  thus — his  arm  a  second  pil 
low;  or  better,  so. 

Cedrielle.     No,  madam — 

Dolora.  No?  Then  lies  awake ;  or  walks  about ; 
or  is  seated;  or — 

Cedrielle.     Do  you  think,  madam? — 

Dolora.  That  he  loves  me?  Wily,  he  loves  me ; 
nily,  he  loves  me  not.  But  go,  get  thee  thyself  to 
bed.  Time  doth  wane  into  the  slender  hours  and 
you  should  be  weary.  Go  get  thee  gone ;  or,  if  you 
stay,  as  doth  content  you,  play  me  a  score  or  two, 
not  light,  but  tender;  sweet,  not  sad;  something 
that  puts  to  sleep  the  thousand  passions  of  the 
heart  and  gives  it  rest.  (Cedrielle  plays.) 

Dolora.  So.  That's  sweet.  Play  on.  (After 
a  while.)  We  are  all  sorrowful  children,  Cedrielle — 

Cedrielle.     Yes,  madam — 

Dolora.  And  I  often  wonder  whether  of  the 
many,  many  souls  that  endure  upon  this  earth, 
'twould  matter  much  if  one  had  never  been. 

Cedrielle.     Very  much  so,  for  God  has  given  each 


120     MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

a  purpose  in  his  being. 

Dolora.  Do  you  think,  then,  we  should  live  for 
others  more  than  for  ourselves? 

Cedrielle.  Ay,  Dolora,  for  others  survive  us,  and 
living,  we  exist  as  much  in  others  as  in  ourselves. 
'Tis  we  that  quit  the  world,  and  therefore  'tis  we 
should  make  it  our  beneficiary. 

Dolora.  I  thank  you  for  teaching  me  this.  Now, 
good  night. 

Cedrielle.    (Anxiously.)  Goodnight — goodnight. 
Dolora.     Make  low  the  light,  dear  Cedrielle. 
Cedrielle.     I  will,  I  will.     (Turns  down  lamp.) 
Dolora.     That's  well.        (Sleeps.) 
Cedrielle.      (Over  her.)     May  the  bosom  of  quiet 

be  thy  pillow  of  rest. 
And  thy  dreams,  the  calmer  visions  of  the 

night, 

Attend  on  thy  soul,  sweetly,  like  cherubims 
In  music  ascending.     (Softly.)     Dolora,  do 

you  sleep? — 

Now  she  sleeps,  and  now  the  best  alarm 
Should  not  awaken  her  to  the  wretch 
That  makes  history  of  night.     I'll  obey; 
But  obedience  will  go  so  far — no  more: 
I'll  see  him  on  the  verge  of  another's  doom 
And  push  him  to  his  own.       ( Unlocks  door.) 
I'll  let  him  in; 

Himself  must  needs  determine  if  he  go. 
Dolora,  sleep! 

And  cover  with  a  film  this  naughty  world, 
And  see  it  not.     If  I  had  magic  charm 
To  spirit  thee  away  into  a  world 
Of   better   fabric,    I'd    follow   thee   myself. 

(Noise.) 


ACT  III  121 

He  comes  already;  hence  he  mayn't  so  soon! 
(She  hides  behind  the  arras.) 

Enter  St.  Francis. 

St.  Francis.      (Calling  softly.)      Cedrielle!    Ce- 
drielle! 

(Feels  along  the  arras.)      I  thought  she   would 
be    here.       Now,    what     were    his    words?     Ay, 
'the    coxcombed    rooster!'    'the    power    masculine!' 
Those  were  his  words!     (Beholding  Dolora.) 
Oh,  most  beauteous! 
Nature's  perfect  fingers  cannot  again 
Design  in  manner  like  to  this!     Rare  prize, 
To  gain  which  dwarfs  the  halting  thought  of 

honor, 

Spiting  the  dread  of  consequence.     (Listens.) 
Ah,  I'd  crowd  all  hazard  of  the  yet  to  be 
Into  that  small  while  which  sees  me  at  her 

side. 

Thus  do  we,  for  a  present  advantage 
Forego  all  the  future. — Cedrielle!  She  is  not 
here.      (Approaches  Dolora.) 

Enter  Melmoth. 

(Francis  turns  abruptly.     They  gaze  at  each  other 
fixedly.) 

Melmoth.     There's  nothing  now  can  make  me 

to  exclaim 

Out  at  the  strangeness  of  it  all. 
Life's  too  possible! 

To  wonder  at  things  this  world  shall  mani 
fest 

From  time  to  time,  is  little  knowing  it. 
See!     Francis,  see!     I  sink  my  knee  before 

thee 
Like  the  serf,  the  minion,  or  the  fallen  slave, 


122      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

If  from   that  lily  hand  whose  grace  is  its 

fault, 
Thou  hast  known  the  bounty  of  her  heart. 

(Pause.) 
But  bend  thou, 

And  bare  thy  breast  to  its  deserve, 
If,  in  the  pure  unconsciousness  of  sleep, 
Now  the  regeant  of  her  virtue, 
She  has  felt  the  rabid  touch  of  lust 
That  meant  to  defile  her !  (Pause.) 

You  do  not  kneel;  go  then. 
You  have  sinned  already  by  your  presence. 
Yet  if  your  silence  lies  to  me, 
And  you  yourself  shall  recommend  the  truth 
Henceforth  to  your  honor, 
Take   this   dagger    (Francis   takes   dagger.) 

and  redeem  yourself.     (Exit  St.  Francis.) 

(Melmoth  approaches  Dolora.) 
Thou  art  only  for  love  and  for  death, 
Sweet  sorrow  of  my  soul!     And  in  the  first, 
Like  the  Supreme  Man  who  died  while  he 

bestowed, 

Thou  hast  richly  given  for  the  second. 
Therefore,  for  thy  love  thou  diest, 
As  many  come  to  die. 
Since  careless   fate  hath  placed  thee  in  my 

way, 

It  is  to  blame,  not  I,  nor  thou,  great  heart! 
And  were  thy  perfect  soul 
More  perfect  in  its  applauded  innocence, 
I  know  not  that  above  the  fatal  promise 
I  could  set  my  heart. 
Then  let  not  heaven 

(Exit  Cedrielle  unobserved.) 


ACT  III  123 

From  its  high  and  pillarless  arcade 

Seek  to  dissuade  me.     For  I  would  sooner 

life, 

Than  love  in  life,  and  one  shuts  out  the  other. 
Awake,  Dolora! 
Here  there's  life  no  more,  but  where,  I  know 

not. 

Awake ! 

Or  shall  I  still  the  labored  breath  of  sleep 
Even  as  thou  liest! —          (Dolora  awakes.) 
Dolora.     Melmoth? 
Melmoth.     Ay. 

Dolora.     What  time  of  night  is  this? 
Melmoth.     At    cross    hours    with    the    morning. 
But  think  of  time  no  more.     With  thee  the  rec 
ord  of  its  day  is  at  an  end. 

Dolora.     How  mean  you,  Melmoth  ?    What  will 

you  do? 

Melmoth.  A  necessary  deed,  Dolora. 
Dolora.  So  never  have  I  seen  you  before.  You 
look  so  earnest  and  so  calm,  I  almost  fear  you. 
They  say  when  strong  men's  souls  become  intent  on 
deeds,  their  faces  look  like  this.  (Anxiously.)  But 
in  your  love  I  feel  secure. 

Melmoth.     Err    not,    sweet    lady.      Great    love 
wounds  itself — 

Dolora.      (Anxiously.)     Then  loves  the  most! 
Melmoth.     But  is  most  cruel!    Destroys  on  what 
it  feeds! 

Dolora.      (Alarmed.)     Yet  does  not  die? 
Melmoth.     Nay,   but   kills!      but   kills!      Think 
upon  the  world  this  last,  Dolora,  and  say  farewell. 
Dolora.     Alas!     And  must  this  be? 
Melmoth.     It  must. 


i24      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Dolora.     And  is  it  for  thy  sake  that  I  must  die? 

Melmoth.     'Tis  for  my  sake. 

Dolora.  Oh,  then  tell  me  why,  that  I  may  know 
my  death's  not  thrown  away. 

Melmoth.  Ask  it  not,  yet  be  the  sacrifice.  They 
ask  not,  they  that  die  for  any  cause. 

Dolora.  Oh,  then  death  is  life,  and  life  is  death, 
and  I  am  one  to  both. 

Melmoth.     Ay.     Ay. 

Dolora.  Spare  me  not,  if  in  my  living,  thru  some 
unlearned  and  terrible  way,  you  must  suffer  to  the 
causing  death. 

Melmoth.     Ay.    Ay. 

Dolora.     Then  am  I  prepared. 

Melmoth.  (Aside.)  Oh,  where's  that  fixedness, 
that  iron  nerve,  that  grit  that  ruled  me  once?  Con 
fess  it  not  to  yourself,  Melmoth,  you  are  weakening! 

Dolora.      (Baring  her  throat.)     Here,  Melmoth. 

Melmoth.      (Aside.)     Oh,  shame! 

Dolora.  Here  is  my  white  neck,  Melmoth, 
which  knew  no  dearer  touch  than  thy  sweet  lips,  its 
proudest  jewel.  Now  brace  it  with  thy  purposed 
fingers — so — till  they  hold  off  breath  and  leave  my 
body  without  impulse. 

Melmoth.  Ha!  He  said  thou  canst  not  do  it, 
and  thou  canst  not!  My  hands  are  traitorous!  Oh, 
my  will's  become  the  trifler  of  my  weakness,  and 
all  is  contradiction.  (Falls  back.)  I  cannot  do  it! 

(Bells  sound.) 

Dolora.     Oh,  Melmoth,  why  is  this? 

Tell  me  how  to  best  deserve  your  love ; 
If  not  by  death,  then  how?  how? 

Melmoth.  (With  abandon.)  Thyself!  Thy 
self!  Let  thine  own  hand  be  thine  own  possessor! 


ACT  III  125 

Promise  me  that,  Dolora.    Quick !    Promise  me. 

(Hides  his  face.)     Oh  this  is  the  least  of  me! 
Now  have  I  fallen  to  the  lowest. 

(Knocking  without.) 

Dolora.     That  I  promise  thee,  Melmoth!    I  will 
restore  thee  to  thy  peace. 

Melmoth.      (Embracing  her.)     Oh,  that  I  loved 
thee  less! 

(Knocking  without.) 

(They^  separate  as  Cedrielle  and  Courtiers  enter.) 
Courtier.     Most   gracious   liege,   if   we   do   here 

intrude 

Let  our  special  purpose  be  the  excuse. 
Esmund's  escaped.     The  guards, 
A  while  since,  up  from  their  sleep, 
Induced  upon  them  by  most  vicious  drugs 
Which  sealed   their  consciousness  for  some 

odd  hours, 

Stirred  the  bells  to  this  midnight  alarm, 
And  warned  us  from  our  beds.    We  thither 

came 

Directed  by  this  lady.  (Signifying  Cedrielle.) 
The  guards  stand  without,  awaiting  enforce 
ment 

To  pursue.    Please  to  give  the  word. 
Melmoth.     Go    out;    go    out.      I    follow    you. 

(Exeunt  all  but  Dolora  and  Cedrielle.) 
Cedrielle.     Praise   God,   dear   madam,   you  still 

survive  this  night ! 

Dolora.     Go  you,  too,  and  leave  me  here  alone! 
Cedrielle.     Why,  I'll  stay  with  you.     There  are 

many — 

Dolora.     Go!     I  tell  thee,  thou  wilt  make  me 
mad  repeating  this. 


126      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Cedrielle.      (Going.)      I  fear  this  night  is  not  yet 

ended. 
Dolora.     Go!  go!  go!  go! 

I'm  sure  that  she  will  make  me  mad! 
Wheels!   Wheels!     Where   got  I   all   these 

wheels ! 
The  whole  world  with  its  streets,  peoples  and 

trades, 

Rivers,  bridges,  wagons  and  commotions, 
Has    crept    into   my    head    and    there   spins 

round ! 
Wheels !      Wheels !      A    million    whirling 

wheels, 

Leaping,  revolving, — faster,  faster,  faster  .  . 
Curtain 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I.     Public  Park.     Easter  Sunday.     It  is 
a  warm  summer  afternoon. 

Enter  Melmoth  and  Pellas,  dressed  as  citizens. 
Melmoth.     Let  me  linger  here.     There's  some 
thing  pleasing 

In  this  prospect  makes  me  wish  to  tarry. 

'Tis  not  the  air,  drawing  upon  the  odor 

Of  these  bearded  trees  and  common  flowers, 

Caters  to  us  here  where  it  does  not  elsewhere. 

Our   chamber  windows  serve   the   sight   to 
views  more  grand: 

Green    lawns   peopled   with    figures   cut   in 
bronze 

And  alabaster; 

Floral  gardens;  waters  serpentine; 

Long  spacious  avenues,  which  rows  and  rows 

Of  stately  pines,  on  either  hand,  escort 

To  the  stretch  and  brink  of  our  vision. 

Then  'tis  not  these,  Pellas.    What  is  it? 
Pellas.     'Tis  the  air  of  homely  satisfaction 

Pervading  the  scene  like  the  light  of  a  Sab 
bath  morn 

Upon  the  world,  doth  make  you  pensive,  my 

lord. 
Melmoth.     There  is  a  change,  Pellas. 

I  know  not  why  I'm  grown  so  reminiscent. 

Things  of  former  days  creep  in  upon  me 

With    a    new    significance.      What    is    it. 
Pellas? 

127 


128      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

There  were  children  before,  men  and  women ; 
Now  as  they  pass  me  by,  I  find  myself 
Seeing   them,   observing   them,    thinking   of 

them, 

As  tho  they  had  been  missing  to  mine  eyes. 
Pellas.     Alas,  I  clear  forgot  to-day  was  Easter 

morn! 

So  do  we  depart  the  thought  of  God, 
The  rites  and  preference  of  our  days, 
Yielding  our  attention  to  the  temporal, 
That  we  o'erglance  our  spirits'  proper  weal, 
And  find  us  wanting. 
How  is  it,  my  lord,  with  your  religion? 
Melmoth.     Eh,  what? 
Pellas.     My  lord,  I  am  overbold?    I  ask  it  but  in 

sympathy. 
Melmoth.     Religion?        Faith,    you    hurt    me. 

You're  unjust. 

Pellas.     I'm  sorry,  truly,  I'm  sorry. 
Melmoth.     Matters  it,  Pellas,  how  one  serves  the 

Lord 

If  he  but  serve  Him?    The  science  lies  not 
So  much  in  our  worship  as  in  our  faith. 
Be  religious  if  thou  wilt,  but  ask  no  man. 
Ay,  do  not  speak  of  that!     Do  not  speak  of 

that ! — 

What  do  the  children  sing? 
Pellas.     Hymns,  my  lord. 
Melmoth.     Hymns.     (Reflecting.)     I  remember, 

Pellas, — but  let  that  be. 
Who  are  those  men  yonder? 
Pellas.     Honest  men,  my  liege. 
Melmoth.     How  simply  "honest  men!" 
Pellas.     Ay,  my  liege. 


ACT  IV  129 

Men  who  travail  in  the  fear  of  the  lord, 
And  in  the  virtue  of  their  living 
Seek  not  to  go  beyond  themselves. 
Humble    in    their    plenty;    in    their    want, 

serene. 
They  give  of  themselves  what  is  most  dear 

to  them, 

And  murmur  not.     They  hear  of  the  ills 
Of  the  world  and  believe  in  its  good. 
Two  solemn  moments  mark  their  even  lives: 
Love  and  death. 

The  one  they  cherish  as  a  duty  bound ; 
The  other  they  accept  with  resignation. 
Thus,  my  lord,  do  they  live,  love  and  suffer 
In  their  own  and  unrelated  spheres, 
And  pass  out  from  the  toss  and  toil  of  life 
Unnoticed,  undiscovered,  like  supers, 
From  the  back  door  of  the  theatre, 
Whilst  the  great  roles  are  on.      They  are 
simple  men. 

Melmoth.      (Sadly.}     Happy  men! 

And  they  question  not,  and  wonder  not, 
And  never  reason  "why?"     Are  there  none 
Among  them,  who,  looking  to  the  mystery 
Of  the  stars,  crave  not  to  fly  to  them? 

Pellas.     Fly  to  them  ? 

Melmoth.      (Vehemently.)      None   who   have   a 

sorrow  for  the  whole  world, 
Seeing  it  bowed  down  by  the  rigor 
Of  nature's  laws,  and  seek  not  to  revolt 
Against  them? 

Pellas.     What,  my  lord! 

Melmoth.     Not  one, 

Who,  in  the  wrecking  fever  of  his  ambition, 


130      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Shakes  a  mailed  fist  at  the  Invisible  Hosts, 
And  thunders  war  to  God ! 
Pellas.     War  to  God ! 
Melmoth.     Happy  men! 
Pellas.     Your  words  are  very  strange  to  me,  my 

lord. 

They  slip  the  grasp  of  my  understanding 
And  leave  me  wondering. 

Melmoth.     No,   old   man,   nor  will   you   under 
stand 

Should  Hell  itself  unfold  to  you  their  mean 
ing, 
Or  Heaven  warn  you  against  it.     'Tis  such 

a  thing, 

Must  separate  reason  from  words;  meaning, 
From  comprehension. 
Here  comes  a  minion  of  thy  son.     Look  to 

him. 

That  haste  is  herald  only  of  the  worst 
In  happenings.  (Enter  Toussan.) 

Tis  of  her  death  he  comes  to  tell  me  now. 
Not  with  a  dagger  did  I  slay  her, 
Nor  pour  into  her  cup  the  hemlock's  juice 
That  seduces  the  breath  from  life. 
(To    Toussan.)       You  need  not  speak.      I  know 
too  well  your  news;   she  is  dead. 
Toussan.     Merry,  my  lord,  who? 
Melmoth.     Then  lives? 
Toussan.     Merry,  my  lord,  who? 
Melmoth.     Wretch,  thou  holdst  me  in  suspense! 
Toussan.     And    thou    holdst   me!      Merry,    my 
lord,  means  his  majesty  the  daughter  of  the  one  that 
has  just  quitted  life? 

Pellas.     What,    old   Kemiss,    dead! 


ACT  IV  131 

Melmoth.  But  Dolora  lives?  Death  itself  is 
nothing.  'Tis  imaging  makes  death  feared!  But 
Dolora  lives! 

Toussan.  Ay,  lives,  but  in  such  a  state  that  one 
thru  pity  would  have  jt  otherwise.  The  old  duke's 
dead;  and  she,  thru  great  dolor  of  his  passing,  has 
forgotten  count. 

Melmoth.     Her  mind  was  not  so  faithful  as  her 

heart. 

One  failed  the  other! 

Pellas.  Dolora  mad!  Old  Kemiss  dead !  Alas! 
What's  this  world  come  to? 

Melmoth.      (Moved.}       He    is    the    better    off. 
Rather   life's   death,   than   death   in   life. 
When  a  soul  fails  we  call  it  by  that  name. 
'Tis  the  expiration  of  our  this-world's  lease. 
But  the  failing  of  a  mind,  that  is 
The  taking  quite  away  of  life,  and  yet 
Denying  death.      (Contemplates.} 
Pellas.     What  exactly  made  his  death  so  sudden, 
can  you  say? 

Toussan.  Merry,  my  lord,  men  die  when  they 
cease  to  grow  older.  Poor  health,  for  one;  a  broken 
spirit,  wrhich  has  had  its  hurts  before,  for  another; 
and  a  presuming  old  age — all  three  combined  to 
bring  him  to  his  end.  If  you'll  hear  me  further, 
sir,  Walden,  in  attempting  to  fly  the  country,  doubt 
less  to  join  with  the  bothersome  John,  was  intercept 
ed,  and  now's  within  the  Tower,  himself  a  prisoner, 
where,  a  jump  before,  he  ruled.  Merry,  eh?  Es- 
mund's  whereabouts  have  not  been  learned,  but  cer 
tain  it  is  he  is  within  the  walls,  free  for  anything. 
Had  Francis,  your  much  obedient  son,  been  heard, 
and  his  words  preferred  when  he  sought  to  caution 


132      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

against  what's  responsible  for  this,  it  would  not  have 
come  to  this. 

Melmoth.  It  does  not  matter  now.  (To  Tous- 
san.)  Go  you  before  me.  (Exit  Toussan.) 

It  was  not  by  her  death  alone  that  then 

I  could  reach  out  to  the  impossible  goal. 

The  world's  engulfed  me  with  its  sympathies 

Too  far  already. 

'Twill  force  an  end — it  must! 

Tis  become  a  greater  and  a  grander  struggle. 

And  the  first  full  might — 

The  rare,  unbroken  energy  of  the  spirit 

To  riot  against  the  riot  of  the  flood — 

Is  no  more  with  me. 
Curtain 

SCENE  2.     Roo?n  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  St.  Francis  and  Toussan. 

St.  Francis.  Counsel,  Toussan?  A  fig,  a  fig, 
I  say!  Go  link  thee  with  a  fool;  confound  thee 
with  your  counsel.  Whereto  has  your  counsel  led 
us?  To  loss,  to  blundering,  to  mishap,  to  chance 
escapes,  to  danger  of  our  necks,  our  ends,  our  all! 
A  fig,  a  fig,  I  say!  We're  found  out  to  an  ace; 
royally  discovered  on  both  hands,  and  either  hand 
is  free  to  cut  us  down.  Counsel?  A  fig! 

Toussan.  A  stopper  to  your  spleen,  my  lord, 
my  sweet  lord.  (Expostulating.)  Blundering! 
Danger!  Loss!  Rats  and  lizards,  merry,  merry, 
my  lord !  You  tear,  you  fume,  you  exclaim !  Where 
fore  ?  And  if  wherefore,  whereto  ?  And  if  whereto, 
whereat?  Wisdom,  I  say;  wisdom  and  a  steady 
nerve;  nerve  and  quality,  merry,  my  lord,  and  we'll 


ACT  IV  133 

undo  those  that  have  undone  us.  A  dull  trap  can 
catch  an  angry  bear;  then  let  not  thine  own  fury 
be  its  own  bait.  Clever,  my  lord, — that's  the  trick! 
Be  thou  clever  rather  than  proficient,  and  thou'lt 
wear  the  plume  and  crow — 

St.  Francis.  If  our  heads  be  not  leveled  and  our 
tongues  pulled  out  ere  that  time.  We're  hedged 
in,  sir.  Royce  and  Dohlgrin,  like  opposite  fires,  are 
raging  thru  the  palace  in  search  of  Esmund,  at  once 
with  an  eye  for  us.  If  we  come  upon  them,  or  they 
on  us — 

Toussan.  Game  on  it,  my  sweet  lord,  we'll  not 
let  honor  scare  our  conscience.  We'll  dig  thru  their 
poor,  pestilent  wrappers  of  a  hide  as  deep  as  sun 
light.  We'll  make  them  pray  harder  than  ghosts 
at  Christmas.  We'll  swear  them  off  their  sweaty 
legs  with  black,  inflammable  curses  till  they  forget 
their  own  wheezes.  Our  lives  are  worth  a  point, 
eh?  We'll  halt  them,  my  lord,  we'll  do  that  to 
them.  But  let  them  bark  their  shins  in  our  pursuit, 
not  we  in  theirs.  Follow  me,  my  sweet  lord,  we'll 
lay  our  heads  together  and  call  it  individual. 

St.  Francis.     Nay,  follow  me — this  way. 

Toussan.     Follow!     Follow!     Follow! 

(Exeunt  both.) 

Enter  Royce  and  Dohlgrin  hastily  fro?n  either 
side,  meeting.  Both  are  disguised. 

Royce.     Well,  what  have  you  seen? 

Dohlgrin.     Esmund,  I  have  not.    But  I  have  seen 

enough 

To  make  these  eyes,  clear  of  that  weakness 
Which  wastes  their  quality,  to  dissolve 
And  run  out  in  tears.  The  jewel  light  of  this 


134      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

court's 

Eclipsed,  cancelled,  put  out. 
I  met  Dolora  wandering  thru  these  halls 
Without  aim  of  direction,  spirit  or  desire. 
A  distant  eye,  a  simple  and  loveless  smile, 
Told  me  better  than  all  her  random  words 
The  story  we  hoped  untrue. 
Royce.     Then  she  is  mad! 

Dohlgrin.     And    do    you    wonder?      This    state 
drives  to  madness! 

Calamity    pursues    us    like    the    still-hunt 
hounds — 
Like  the  northern  wolves  that  race  across  the 

heavens, 

Swallowing  the  sun. 

Royce.     Dohlgrin,  you  are  not  yourself  to-day. 
Dohlgrin.     I  am  not. 

Royce.     I  pray  you,  take  yourself  in  hand. 
Dohlgrin.      (Bitterly.}      Nay,  nay,  there's  cause 

enough  to  make  one  quarrel 
With  his  own  nature.     See  Royce, 
The  great  mass  of  our  doings'  jumbled  up, — 
Thrust  aside  by  the  back  of  a  hand 
Without  the  eye  following. 
Esmund  has  led  us  to  a  peak,  pinned  us  there, 
Then  removed  the  base  of  our  support, 
And  so  left  us. 

Here's  labor  mocked  at,   effort  unacknowl 
edged, 

And  the  whole  school  of  an  empire  swung  out 
Into  the  unsupportable  air.     What's  to  do? 
Royce.     I  know  not  what  myself. 

Esmund's  being  here  within  the  palace, 
And  so  immediate  to  the  person  of  the  king, 


ACT  IV  135 

Makes  all  things,  conjunctive  to  security, 
At  once  precarious. 
Dohlgrin.     Oh,  Royce,  if  I  had  hate  in  my  heart 

for  him 

Now's  the  time  'twould  show,   and  aggra 
vate 

Itself  into  a  fever. 

Royce.     Moderate  your  thought  and  feeling  to 
ward  him. 

He  should  have  more  our  support  and  less 
Our  prejudice.     For  in  such  a  case, 
Friendship's  nothing  if  it  is  not  all. 
Here  he  enters. 
That  helpless  look  which  starts  out  from  his 

eye 
Even  humbles  pity  for  his  state. 

Enter  Esmund. 
Dohlgrin.     Ay.     He  thinks  not  of  us. 

We  and  our  purposes  are  as  far  from  him 
As  that  inauspicious  thought,  which  spoils 
The  rose  and  promise  of  our  effort, 
Is  near  to  him, 

Esmund.     You  hardly  greet  me  well,  my  lords. 
Dohlgrin.     I'm  sorry  we  do  it  not  well.     Tis  a 

fault, 

If  the  heart  teach  not  the  lips  eloquence 
They  cannot  speak. 
Esmund.     What   is   it  with   you?     What's   the 

matter? 

Dohlgrin.     Nothing   that   is  not. 
Esmund.     I  pray  you,  friends,  do  not  censure  me 
Thus  freely,  nor  give  way  to  your  grievances 
Which  excite  mine  own.     Howbeit  the  out 
come 


136      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Of  this  quick  and  dangerous  adventure — 
My  coming  here — may  derogate   the  vant 
age 

Of  our  prince,  the  which  I  fairly  doubt, 
I  still  must  further  in  the  course 
I  have  for  myself  prescribed. 
My  present  purpose  which  stirs  not  indeed 
With  vital  element  of  general  good 
Yet  finds  a  mother-wing  in  the  state's. 
'Tis    that   my    heart    is    too    much    charged 

with  grief 

To  suffer  me  the  ease  of  proper  answer 
Or  excuse   for   my   behavior,   which   makes 

you 

Such  lame  comforters. 

Dohlgrin.     Who  doubts  not  in  his  own  perform 
ances, 

He  need  not  answer  any. 
Esmund,  you  have  lost  yourself  in  your  own 

desires, 

And    forgotten    us ! 
Esmund.     Ah,  no!     To  forget  would  take  away 

the  pain. 

'Tis  the  more  remembered,   and  therefore 
Grief   the  more  extenuated. 
If  mine  be  waywardness  in  your  conceit, 
I  cannot  help.     Here's  the  principle: 
Poor  reason  is  strong  affection's  fool, 
And  strong  affection  ever  to  her  will 
Doth  twist  the   frail  ligaments  of   things 
And    qualities,    careless    of    circumstances. 
Dohlgrin.     There's   the   harm! 

By  such  a  disposition,  do  you  not  alone 
Not  assist  the  cause  but  help  to  drag  it  down. 


ACT  IV  137 

Can  you  then  find  it  in  you  to  excuse 

A    wrong    so    loudly    imminent    to — to    the 

whole ! 

It  is  plain  you  jumped  consideration 
When  you  threw  yourself  away  on  private 

wrongs, 

Neglecting  ours. 

Do  you  intend  that  to  elicit  sympathy? 
Esmund.      (Hurt.)     Dohlgrin,  speak  not  to  me! 
'Tis  well  to  censure  when  there's  no  regret. 
What,  so  circumstanced  as  I  am  now, 
Would   you    have    done?      Done   other?      1 

doubt  it  much; 
I  would  not  wish  upon  you  a  moiety  of  my 

cares 
Even     should    it    teach    you    fellow-feeling. 

(Turning  to  Royce.) 
Royce,  you  are  silent.     May  it  be 
Resentment   in   your   heart   is   too    full    for 

words, 

Or  is  it  that  you  understand  death's  grief 
And   respect  its  distractions?     I   take   that, 

rather, 

And  see  in  your  silence  an  allowance 
For  the  spirit  of  revenge,  which,  if  denied, 
Must  pluck  at  the  heart's  root  ever. 
Royce.     Dohlgrin,   forego. 

We  ought  allow  for  that  degree  of  selfish 
ness 

Which  is  in  every  man.     So,  likewise, 
The  strength  of  habit  and  affection 
Must  be  known  and  understood  ere  we 
Can  undertake  to  find  exception, 
And  presume  the  anger  of  our  hearts 


138      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Upon  another. 

Besides,  revenge,  when  not  the  unsuspected 
art 

That  does  in  secrecy,  deserves  a  with-thought 
here. 

But  where  it  is  the  quick  and  brave  confes 
sion 

Of  a  hurt,  deeper  than  reason's  reach, 

And  beyond  its  medicine,  then  even 

It  claims  a  nearness  to  justification. 
Dohlgrin.     I'm   not  so   much   against  him,   that 
you  know, 

As  he  is  from  us.    But  this  you  must  confess : 

By  his  revenge  our  cause  suffers  neglect. 

If  Esmund  would  bear  with  us  as  we  with 
him, 

He  would  release  vengeance  from  his  own 
hand 

And  entrust  it  to  that  Greater  One, 

Which  knows  to  mete  out  knowingly  and 

when. 

Esmund.     Not  so!     Not  so!     Myself  and  I  my 
self! 

All  else — too  slow !    Nor  will  I  let  Time, 

That    joins    again    the    little    broken    weft- 
threads 

Of  our  lives;   that  heals   the   wound,   and 
makes 

Of  great  grief,  a  careless  memory, 

Steal  away  from  me  the  precious  fires 

Living  here. 

Royce.     Peace,   Dohlgrin!     To  say  more   is   to 
say  too  much. 

We  cannot  take  away  this  care  of  cares; 


ACT  IV  139 

Add  to  it,  we  should  not.       (Enter  Dolora.) 
There's  his  sister. 
Dohlgrin.     Oh,  look  not,  Royce! 
Royce.     Ten    times   his    heart   must   break   and 

break  at  this! 
Esmund.     Oh,  pity!  pity!     Thou  hast  not  tears 

enough 

To  drown  this  spectacle.  This  is  my  sister! 
Where's  despair  can  measure  out  my  grief, 
And  describe  me  full?  When  they  have 

known 

This  too  too  sorry  sight,  mine  eyes 
Have  seen  enough.     Dolora,  oh  sweet  sister ! 
Speak  to  me!     Say  that  you  remember! 
Say  that  from  your  mind's  rich  coronet, 
The  dearest  gem,  the  radiant  source-light 
Of  the  soul,  has  not  been  ta'en  away. 

(Esmund  removes  mask.) 

Dolora.     You  speak  to  me,  sir.    What  will  you? 
Esmund.     I  speak  to  you,  Dolora,  yet  you  know 

me  not! 

Friends,  she  knows  me  not! 
Is  there  no  way  to  reach  her  complete  soul 
Other  than  the  transit  of  her  mind 
Which    now's   obstructed   with   a   thousand 

memories 

Hopelessly  confused? 

Dolora.  Faith,  sir,  I  know  you  not,  how  can  I? 
I  do  entreat  you  to  let  me  pass.  Frail  things  wither. 
The  elm  outlives  a  thousand  lilies.  The  roses  die 
before  their  colors  go.  Faith,  faith,  what's  sweet  is 
not  lasting.  But  is  not  the  poetry  of  the  breeze 
sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  stormwind?  Will 
you  let  me  go?  There  will  be  feasting  to-night 


140      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

where  everything  is  forgot.  A  few  mad  souls  will 
wave  their  cups  high  in  the  air,  and  hosts  and  hosts, 
with  pale  and  envious  lips,  who  always  dress  the 
feast,  will  serve  to  them — look  on,  but  never  par 
take. 

Esmund.  What  vast  thoughts  are  there,  raveled 
up! 

Dolora.  My  duty's  to  my  lord.  Thither  is  my 
heart  gone.  I  must  follow.  Why  do  they  keep  him 
from  me? 

Esmund.  Alas,  she  loved  him  even  to  the  doom 
of  reason!  Oh,  why  do  the  best  of  us  forsake  so 
soon  the  world,  and  leave  it  to  the  ravages  of  the 
rest? 

Dolora.  Ever  have  I  loved  him,  but  he  was 
cruel,  and  led  me  to  this. 

Esmund.  To  this?  To  what!  (Clutches  at 
her  arm.) 

Dolora.  Why  do  you  hurt  my  hand?  I  know 
not  to  "what".  Why  do  you  frown  upon  me?  Will 
you  let  the  phrase  mar  the  sentence?  Who  are 
you? 

Esmund.  Who  am  I !  I !  Oh,  rather  were 
thy  poor  lips  sealed,  Dolora,  than  yielding  of 
such  words.  I  am  not  wrong;  Melmoth  was  the 
all-cause.  (To  Royce  and  Dohlgrin.)  Do  speak 
to  her,  my  lords.  Perhaps  in  you  she  may  recall 
herself. 

Royce.     How  do  you,  madam? 

Dolora.  Do!  Do!  Do!  This  is  a  world  of 
flies.  (To  Royce.)  Methinks  I've  seen  you  be 
fore. 

Royce.  Even  madam;  it  was  in  your  brother 
Esmund's  company.  You  must  remember. 


ACT  IV  141 

Dolora.     That  was  so  long  ago.    Ah,  so  long  ago ! 

(They  adjust  their  masks.) 
Enter  Cedrielle. 

(Perceiving  Cedrielle.)  Why  does  she  follow 
me?  I  know  no  rest  nor  peace.  Fly  boy,  ho  boy, 
now  I  must  away.  (Esmund  attempts  to  detain 
her.) 

Cedrielle.  Do  not  detain  her,  my  lord.  She 
becomes  ungentle  when  crossed.  Let  her  go  which 
way  she  pleases. — Was  ever  heart  so  tried? 

(Exit  Dolora  with  Cedrielle,  following.) 

Esmund.  (To  Cedrielle.)  Madam,  a  while,  I 
pray.  Do  you  attend  upon  her? 

Cedrielle.     Yes,  my  lord,  day  and  night. 

Esmund.     What  is  the  temper  of  her  weakness? 

Cedrielle.  She  is  given  to  wandering  through 
the  palace — 

Esmund.     Just  so? 

Cedrielle.  In  the  hope  that  she  may  chance 
upon  the  king. 

Esmund.     Aha!     You  see,  my  lords? — 

Cedrielle.  But  when  within  his  sight,  alarmed, 
she  quickly  hides  herself,  that  he  may  not  perceive 
her.  Thus  does  she  all  day.  At  night,  exhausted  by 
her  restlessness,  she  falls  into  a  sleep  which  is  neither 
sleep  nor  waking. 

Esmund.  I  thank  you.  ( To  Royce  and  Dohl- 
grin,  hopelessly.)  Why,  she  is  beyond  recall! 

Cedrielle.  Were  her  brother  here  to  speak  to 
her— 

Esmund.     Nay,    that's    unavailing. 

Cedrielle.     Such   things   occur  they   say. 

Esmund.     So    rarely    that    it    but    torments  .the 
hope  wasted  on  it. 


142      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Who   can   renew   a  pattern   of  such   excel 
lence  ? 

Cedrielle.     But  I  must  follow  her,  sirs,  else  she 
will  come  to  harm.     (Exit.) 

Esmund.     Oh,    friends,    at   times   life's   worth   a 

world, 
And  at  times,  not  a  throw's  hazard.     But 

what  is't 

That  makes  us  cling  to  it  even  when  sorrow 
Sits  upon  the  heart  and  madness  rends  it? 
I  should  be  mine  own  deliverer, 
Ending    it   all   with    this — (Dagger.)     But 

there's   a   cause 

Keeps  me  yet  a  while;  that  encompassed, 
Makes  death  slight.     But  to  stand  is  to  idle. 
I'll  seek  and  find  him  now. 

Dohlgrin.  You  need  not;  there  he  is  himself. 
Esmund.  Where?  Aha!  Why  has  the  first 
glance  been  denied  me?  (Enter  Melmoth  and  Pel- 
las.)  What's  now  to  live  or  to  die?  There's  that 
will  satisfy  all  longing.  Villain!  How  have  you 
killed  my  sister!  O,  I  could  drink  thy  blood,  started 
by  this  minister  of  death,  faster  than  thy  wounds 
could  spill  it  forth. 

(Royce,    Dohlgrin    and    Esmund    remove    their 
masks. ) 

Pellas.     Treason,  treason!     Ho! 
Dohlgrin.     Old  fool,  be  silent. 
Esmund.     You,   great  king,   might  have  known 
that  such  an  hour  was  sure.    Come  now.    Rest  your 
fortunes  upon  your  sword.     Make  yourself  terrible 
as  the  Bengal  Cat,  the  Lernean  hydra!    Yea,  be  like 
the  knotted  oak,  and  I  will  run  you  thru  the  readier. 
Melmoth.     Esmund,     put     away    your     sword. 


ACT  IV  143 

Knew  you  the  futility  of  your  threats 

You  would  make  less  of  them. 

Be  undeceived.     There  is  that  strength  in 

me, 

Unclaimed  by  nature  and  so  opposite  to  use, 
It  could  make  mockery  of  a  world. 
Mercy  was  rarely  mine. 
If  now  'tis  time  to  show,  be  happy.     Pellas, 

follow  me. 

Royce.     Nay,  then,  we  must  oppose  you. 
Dohlgrin.     First  here,  my  lord. 
Pellas.     What  more,  still  more? 
Esmund.     Villainy  hath  more  than  one  justicer. 
Melmoth.     ( To  Royce  and  Dohlgrin. )     You  are 
his  friends.    I  forgive  your  insolence  as  I  forgive  his 
charge.      (To  Royce.)      You,  sir,   I   have  remem 
brance  of  you.    You  do  not  honor  my  court  so  much 
of  late. 

Royce.  The  turbulent  state  of  matters  here  and 
abroad  have  kept  us  keen  on  duty. 

Melmoth.  Excellent,  excellent.  Your  wit  should 
make  you  frown  upon  your  age. 

Esmund.  An  end!  An  end!  Why  do  you 
measure  words?  There's  nothing  comes  of  that. 
Will  you  draw,  or  must  I  bear  away  with  me  the 
sin  of  murder? 

Melmoth.     Then  there's  choice  not  left  to  me 

but  yield 

The  satisfaction  you  desire.     I  can  almost 
Appreciate  the  election  of  the  mind 
When  it  seeks  to  locate  the  germ 
Of  its  affliction  here. 

Esmund.     Enough  of  words!     My  sword  sweats 
in  my  hand ! 


144      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

The  argument  of  the  tongue  is  stale !     I  love 

the  argument  of  arms. 

(Royce  and  Dohlgrin  go  to  either  door,  and  stand 
guard  with  drawn  swords.) 

Melmoth.  (Draws.)  Is  life  so  little  that  'tis 
thrown  away  so  carelessly?  (They  join.) 

And  life's  possibilities,  (They  fight.) — greater — 
(Fending.)  greater  than  death's  promise, — a  fume 
— a  fume — blown  away — thus!  (Hits  Esmund,  who 
falls.) 

Royce  and  Dohlgrin.  Esmund,  you  are  wound 
ed.  (They  run  over.) 

Esmund.  Nay,  I  am  killed.  Oh,  friends,  fare 
well.  (Dies.) 

Royce.     Farewell,   sweet   Esmund ;  woe  survives 

thee! 
Melmoth.     He  chose  this  hour  from  Time's  great 

calendar 
To   be   his   last.      He   died   himself.      This 

world,  (Signifying  Esmund.) 

With  all  its  fond  and  cherished  make-believes, 
Is  at  an  end.     It  might  have  yet  revolved, 
And  yet  be  seen  in  its  customary  orbit 
But  for  this  chance.    Tis  fallen  now.    It  will 
No  more  be  known,  sung  or  thought  of. 
The  promethean  fire  is  out. 

(To  Royce  and  Dohlgrin.)  You,  sirs,  his  near 
est  friends,  take  up  the  body  and  give  it  grace.  For 
your  own  selves,  depart  this  kingdom  in  the  free 
dom  of  a  day.  Be  well  in  mind  of  this.  (Exeunt 
Melmoth  and  Pellas.) 

Royce.      (To  Esmund.)      Dear  friend,  farewell. 
Dohlgrin  cover  him. 
Lest  the  look  within  his  fading  eyes 


ACT  IV  145 

Accuse  us  with  their  glassy  stare. 
How  stood  we  all  composed  to  see  our  friend, 
Most  dear  to  us,  fall  before  our  eyes! 
Dohlgrin.     Better   to  have   stood   aside   than   to 

have  jumped 
Upon  a  folly.    Adieu !    Adieu !    Perhaps  'tis 

better  so  ; 
Who  knows? 

The  shadow  and  largeness  of  his  calamity 
Would    from    his   spirit,    ne'er   have    passed 

away, 

Lived  he  yet. 

Enter  Berkeley  and  Brabant,  triumphantly. 
Berkeley.     All     hail,     comrades,    heaven     smiles 
upon  us  most  serenely !     (Suddenly.)    Royce!   Dohl 
grin!     What  have  we  here! 

Brabant.  (Over  Esmund.)  My  God!  Esmund's 
murdered ! 

Berkeley.     Oh,  say  not  so! 

Royce.  Alas,  good  friends,  see  but  for  your 
selves. 

Berkeley.  Oh,  most  pitiful  sight!  How  came 
this  to  be  done? 

Dohlgrin.  He  was  slain  most  royally —  by  Mel- 
moth's  hand.  Nigh  crazed  by  his  terrible  misfor 
tune,  Esmund  came  himself  to  seek  revenge.  This 
is  the  sad  result. 

Berkeley.     There   is  a  time  for   death.     It  was 
not  now.     For  duty  and  past  allegiance  he  should 
have  lived  to  see  his  efforts  crowned. 
Brabant.     Shall  we  take  him  hence? 
Royce.     Yes.     Take  him  up.     In  all  our  hearts 
he  shall  remain  a  loving  memory.    And  now — what 
news,  Brabant? 


146      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Brabant.  To-night  we  must  away;  and  while 
revelry  is  highest  in  the  court,  we  leave  Elsmere  be 
hind  us,  to  return  only  with  the  prince. 

Curtain 


ACT  V 

SCENE  I. — Dolor  as  Bedchamber.   Dolor  a  asleep. 
Discovered  Margaret,  Cedrielle  and  Physician. 

Cedrielle.     Well,    doctor  ? 

Physician.  The  indications  of  her  condition,  as 
I  see  them,  cannot  belie  their  exact  nature. 

Cedrielle.  Is  there  not  a  last  hope  for  her  recov 
ery?  I  do  beseech  you. 

Physician.     No,   madam. 

Cedrielle.  Nay,  there  must  be,  else  you  make 
the  use  of  your  art  a  thing  to  laugh  at. 

Physician.  Madam,  I  am  a  physician.  You  need 
not  urge  your  dissatisfaction  at  my  advice  to  a  point 
of  disrespect.  What  is  beyond  my  art,  is  beyond 
my  power — consider  that. 

Cedrielle.  Then  cannot  she  be  helped  ?  Are  you 
certain  of  it?  Does  faith  go  no  farther  than  your 
salves  and  antidotes  that  strive  into  the  flesh  only, 
which  knows  not  to  resist?  Is  there  no  truer  ano 
dyne,  no  surpreme  touch  that  can  renew  the  mind? 
Indulge  me  but  this  hope. 

Physician.  I'm  sorry,  madam,  I'm  neither 
prophet  nor  wizard ;  then  expect  not  of  me  to  exert 
their  extraordinary  powers;  you  charge  me  too 
severely,  ay,  too  severely !  ( Going. ) 

Cedrielle.  If  I  do,  be  patient  with  me.  Grief 
makes  forget  the  courtesy  of  the  tongue.  But 
you,  sir,  speak  rather  in  sympathy  than  like  one 
who  looks  upon  this  failing  flesh  with  the  brave 
and  unprevisionary  eye  of  science,  and  sees  in  all 
147 


148      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

matter,  obedience  to  disease  and  remedy ;  in  all  things, 
change  and  decay. 

Physician.  I  can  do  no  more  than  take  away  the 
pain  when  I  have  found  the  cause  of  it.  Diseases 
of  the  body  are  known  to  me — these  I  can  influ 
ence;  but  diseases  of  the  mind,  when  they  are  of 
such  abstruse  character,  are  peculiar  to  the  under 
standing.  They  may,  forsooth,  be  healed  by  con 
viction  as  those  of  the  spirit  by  faith. 

Cedrielle.  Alas,  sir,  where  is  the  power  to 
endow  her  with  faith  or  conviction  when  the  power 
to  accept  either  is  gone? 

Physician.  Then,  madam,  if  you  are  a  believer, 
must  you  confide  her  to  His  wonders.  Often  have 
they  occurred  to  embarrass  the  methods  of  science. 
On  that  behalf,  we  cannot  say  with  certainty  of 
anything,  'it  is  so',  or  'this  will  be'  or  'this  or  that 
must  follow'.  For  sureness  assured  in  a  truth,  may 
be  rooted  in  error.  The  most  practiced  not  infre 
quently  go  wide  in  their  speculations;  yet  for  my 
own  part,  in  the  instance  of  our  present  patient,  I 
cannot  offer  to  encourage  a  hope  for  her  recovery, 
feeling  it  to  be  ungrounded. 

Cedrielle.     Then   God   must  show  his  mercy. 

Physician.     Amen.     Amen.      (Goes  out.} 

Cedrielle.  Were  there  no  miracles  before  this 
hour,  there  must  be  now.  (Walks  over  to  the  bed.) 

(To  Margaret.)      Has  she  yet  stirred? 

Margaret.  Soon  after  you  were  gone,  madam, 
she  did  toss  about  as  in  great  pain.  She  moaned 
and  muttered;  called  up  bits  of  conversation,  scenes 
and  names,  which  I  could  not  make  intelligible. 
Then  she  fell  into  a  sleep,  unbroken  since.  Do  you 
think,  madam,  does  her  ailment  give  cause  for 


ACT  V  H9 


anxiety. 

Cedrielle.     Too   much,   too   much,   alas! 
Margaret.     How  tended  the  words  of  the  phy 
sician  ? 

Cedrielle.     They  were   unassuring,    and   left  me 
less  with  hope  than  with  sorrow. 
Margaret.     So    ill? 

Cedrielle.  So  hopeless  ill.  Were  it  but  a  tu 
mor,  a  disorder  of  the  blood,  an  affection  of  the 
heart — soft,  she  stirs! 

Margaret.     Do  you  think  she  will  awaken? 
Cedrielle.     Perhaps   'tis   her   fever   racks  her  so. 
This  may  be  her  rest  until  the  last. 
Oh   that  her  sleep  were  tranquil!   and  the 

pillow 

Whereon  her  angel  head  is  laid,  less  fevered 
With  the  dreams  of  him  that  has  forsaken 

her. 

Art  thou  the  sweet  Dolora,  lying  so  low; 
The    early    flower    that    blithely    followed 

Spring 

Her  briefest  season? 

Oh  bitter  world,  that  like  the  Minotaur, 
Appeases  itself  with   the   dearest   and   love 
liest  ; 

Or  like  hungry  Cronus,  devours  the  best 
Of  its  own  creation. 
Margaret.     She  wakes,  madam. 
Dolora.      (Awaking.}     Cedrielle? 
Cedrielle.     Sweet   madam? 

Dolora.     Help  me  to  raise  myself.     What  hour 
is  it,  do  you  know? 

Cedrielle.     Near  to  evening,  madam. 
Dolora.     So  it  is.     How's  your  cheer? 


150      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Cedrielle.     Little  better  than  your  own. 

Dolora.  Alas!  alas!  You  should  have  a  phy 
sician.  Their  drugs  and  simples  can  chide  our 
blood  into  behavior.  (Observing  Margaret.) 
Who's  this  near  me?  Ill  omens,  again?  So,  so, 
I'm  eager;  prithee  come  here. 

Margaret.  It  is  only  I,  dear  madam.  Do  you 
wish  for  anything? 

Dolora.  Boy,  say  to  whom  thou  bringest  news. 
Messengers,  like  coaches,  ofttimes  serve  for  the  dead 
or  the  over-merry.  I  have  not  had  a  messenger  so 
long,  he's  ancient  in  mine  eyes.  What  have  you 
there?  (To  Cedrielle.)  What's  the  matter,  why 
this  puling?  Why  this  taking  on?  If  my  eyes  bear 
me  true  witness,  Cedrielle,  thine  are  moist. 

Cedrielle.  If  thou  wouldst  understand  my  grief, 
dear  friend,  I  would  not  need  to  grieve.  Nothing, 
oh  Dolora,  nothing  in  the  catalogue  of  great  mis 
fortunes  should  have  attained  to  the  wrecking  of 
your  life.  Why  was  it  so? 

Dolora.  Let  me  see  the  occasioner  of  your  grief. 
'Tis  smoke,  I  bank,  and  will  into  the  air.  (To 
Margaret.)  Here,  boy,  is  thy  reward. 

Margaret.  Harmony  and  discord  both  find  a 
chorus  here!  Madam,  do  you  know  me? 

Dolora.  To  forget  is  the  saddest  thing  in  the 
world,  but  what's  sadder  than  to  know  that  one 
must  forget? 

Cedrielle.     Oh,  woe  is  me! 

Dolora.  (Mockingly.)  Oh,  woe  is  me!  Why 
do  you  confound  me  with  your  laments  ?  You  make 
my  head  to  whirl.  Why  do  you  say  that  I  am  mad  ? 
I'll  show  thee.  Bid  me  count  the  days  of  the  week, 
the  months  of  the  year;  bid  me  calculate;  put  to  me 


ACT  V  151 

questions  and  problems  that  are  known  to  perplex 
old  men,  and  you'll  receive  most  proper  answer.  Nay, 
I'll  tell  thee  thy  lover's  name.  (In  warning  tones.) 
Of  him  be  cautious!  Come  here,  by  me. 

(Cedrielle  and  Margaret  sit  down  on  her  bed.) 
Lay  his  sword  between  you,  when  you  lie  at  his 
side.  Men  will  want  thee  till  they  get  thee,  and 
thou  art  nothing,  when  they  have  known  thee.  Do 
not  cast  yourself  in  the  survey  of  men,  for  therein 
lies  no  safety. 

Cedrielle.     Thy  wisdom  comes  too  late,  alas! 

Dolora.  The  laws  of  love  are  so  exacting!  They 
rob  us  of  our  wisdom  and  our  sleep  and  make  the 
proudest  of  us,  willing  slaves. 

Margaret.  (To  Cedrielle.)  If  this  be  madness, 
what  quality  is't  we  call  reason? 

Dolora.     Fetch  me  my  jewel-box. 

Alar gar et.     Your  jewel-box? 

Cedrielle.  Make  no  ado,  go  get  it.  (Margaret 
goes  to  drawer.) 

Dolora.  So  the  world  seems  fashioned;  they 
that  comfort  have  no  reward;  they  are  dearest  to 
us,  we  love  them  most,  for  whom  we  suffer  and  en 
dure  the  most.  (Margaret  returns  with  the  jewel- 
box.)  The  lustre  of  a  jewel  is  in  the  eye;  the 
fragrance  of  a  flower  is  in  the  sense;  music  is 
sweetest  when  the  heart  is  sad.  (Takes  the  box.) 

Cedrielle.  Reason  unreasonably  uttered!  What 
hope  is  there  that  shall  sustain  us  now? 

Dolora.  This  brooch  was  brilliant  once;  now, 
no  more.  When  was  it  given  me,  do  I  recall? 
Take  them  away !  Take  them  away !  Jewels  with 
out  memory  are  like  thoughts  without  affection, 
friendship  without  duty,  kisses  without  love;  like 


152      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

letters  whose  sender  is  forgotten. 

(Falls  back  upon  her  bed,  exhausted.) 
Go,  let  me  rest,  let  me  rest.    Let  me  sleep  till  all  is 
unremembered  and  over.     (Sleeps.) 
Margaret.     Madam,  shall  I  go? 
Cedrielle.     Do,  Margaret — of  what  fabric  is  my 
heart  that  it  does  not  break?     Margaret? 
Margaret.     Yes  ? 

Cedrielle.     Prepare  what  comforts  have  been  pre 
scribed.    You  have  heard  the  physician? 
Margaret.     Yes,  madam. 
Cedrielle.     Then  go  and  make  haste. 
Margaret.      Yes,  madam.       (Exit.)       (Cedrielle 
draws  bed  curtain.) 

Enter  Melmoth. 

Cedrielle.     What,  is  Melmoth  here! 
Melmoth.     Soft!     Unbrace  not  unto  this  air  a 

name 
That  must  weight  it  down.     Let  her  not 

hear  it. 

(Turns  to  Dolora.)     I  thought, 
That  though  she  came  with  blood  upon  her 

brow 

Like  an  accusing  angel,  pointing  upward, 
Asking  why,  I'd  know  her  not. 
Cedrielle.  Oh,  king,  were  thy  name  the  very 
echo  of  these  walls,  and  these  echoes  were  alive,  it 
would  no  more  startle  her  from  that  slumber,  fast 
sinking  into  the  last.  Once  the  thought  of  thee 
alone  gave  vital  breath;  now  even  thy  semblance 
must  be  a  perturbation  to  her  sense.  If  you  have 
come  to  triumph  at  this  fall,  be  sure  in  that  you've 
triumphed ;  for  mischief  never  aspired  to  excellence 
above  this.  But  if  you  come  repentant,  pause  here 


ACT  V  153 

and  weep.  Yet  should  you  turn  the  streams  of  all 
the  world  to  salt,  and  that  to  tears,  you  will  not 
have  enough. 

Melmoth.      (Shaking  his  head.}     Tears  are  not 

for  great  sorrows  that  make  men  silent. 
Rather  for  the  hurts  and  thousand  ordinary 

pangs 

That  visit  our  lives. 

'Tis  the  ready  tear  that  fills  a  little  grief 
And  washes  it  away.     But  the  best  tear, 
As  tribute  to  a  deep  and  precious  sorrow, 
Remains  a  debt.     (To  Cedrielle.) 
I  cannot  weep. 

Yet  if  I  could,  and  tears  contained  my  grief, 
They  would  overrun  their  swollen  channels 

faster 
Than    these   eyes   could    suffer   them.      But 

strong  men 

Must  not  weep  howe'er  the  heart  crack 
With  exceeding  emotion. 

Cedrielle.  What  vessel  so  overcharged,  does  not 
spill  itself?  But  no,  your  heart  is  the  Aegean  marble 
to  which  the  melting  rays  of  pity  never  penetrate. 
Approach  on  thy  knees,  king,  if  thou  hast  it  in  thy 
courage  to  approach  her,  as  thou  hadst  it  in  thy 
heart  to  madden  her. 

Melmoth.     Judge  me,  thou  Great  Innocence! 
Cedrielle.      Fools  cry  to  heaven  when  they  grow 
wrise,  and  wise  men  when  they  grow  foolish.    Judge 
yourself,   Melmoth,  and  you  will  know  that  your 
crime  was  great  as  it  was  terrible. 

Melmoth.     Ay.     Greater  it  could  not  have  been. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  could  paint  my 
grief 


154      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

In  bitter  moods,  in  heavy  silence,  in  words, 
Sometimes,  in  tears.    But  now,  there's  noth 
ing. 

Cedrielle.    Why  have  you  come,  then?    Like  the 
Vandal,  to  look  upon  the  temple  he  has  desecrated? 
Melmoth.     Ay,  and  to  suffer  looking  at  it. 
Cedrielle.     Then  look  till  you  are  pale  and  sick 
at  the  thought  of  yourself.     (Draws  aside  bed-cur 
tain.)     Look,  till  aught  that's  good  in  your  small 
nature,   is  warped   and  shriveled  up,  and  becomes 
afraid. 

Melmoth.     Oh  that  mine  eyes  were  spared  a  sad 
der  sight! 

Sleep,  Dolora,  for  in  consciousness 
Thou  must  despise  me.    Yet  if  thou  wouldst 

know 
Why  Melmoth  thrust  thee  from  him  when 

he  craved 

Thee  most,  and  avoided  thy  dear  presence 
When,  in  avoiding  thee,  he  bled  his  soul, 
Neglectful  of  the  point  of  death,  thou 
Wouldst  be  one  in  all  this  world  to  show 

him 

Sympathy.  ( Pause. ) 

Oh  where  shall  I  find  words  half  eloquent 
Of  my  emotion!     I  can  only  speak,  speak, 

speak, 
Till  the  throat  is  dry  and  the  tongue  refuses 

me 
Its  function.  (Dolora  awakes.) 

(Melmoth  hides  his  face.) 
Nay,  nay, 

Gaze  not  upon  me  with  that  innocence 
Which  pleads  with  mute  and  tender  accusa- 


ACT  V  155 

tion. 

Rather  see  the  violence  and  the  waste 
Within  this  vault,  but  that — that,  thou  canst 

not! 

Dolor  a.  We  are  not  so  fond  as  to  take  each  man 
seriously.  Kindness  is  folly.  Wise  men  die,  but 
fools  never.  Why  hast  thou  come  so  late  in  the 
night,  Melmoth? 

Melmoth.  Why  have  I  awakened  so  late  in  the 
night,  Dolora?  Why  did  I  fail  the  dawn?  I  look 
ed  to  opposite  shores,  and  stars  that  paled. 

Dolora.     Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me,  Melmoth? 
Melmoth.     Why   have   I    forsaken   myself,    Do 
lora? 

Dolora.  They  say  that  sinners  who  repent  are 
holier  than  the  saints.  He  is  better  far.  There's  a 
lily  on  his  brow  and  a  lily  in  his  hand.  Why  was 
the  way  so  long,  Melmoth?  Why  was  the  way 
so  long? 

Melmoth.      (Passionately.}      Oh,  my  Dolora! 
If  thou  hadst  power  left  for  comprehension, 
And  thy  dear  heart  were  stern  as  adamant, 
And  I  had  words  as  mild  as  thy  sweet  bosom, 
That  thou  might'st  hear  a  madman's  tale,  and 

live, 
I  would  disclose  to  thee  my  bosom's  secret. 

(Falls  upon  her  bed.) 
Enter  Pellas  and  Officers. 

Cedrielle.     What!     Even  in  this  sanctuary,  sirs! 
Pellas.     Your  pardon — 

First  Officer.  What  shall  we  do?  The  news 
is  precious. 

Second  Officer.  He  should  be  instantly  in 
formed. 


156      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Pellas.  My  lords,  be  pleased  to  wait  without. 
Trust  me  to  acquaint  him. 

First  Officer.  Impress  him  with  the  immediate 
nature  of  our  tidings.  Report  to  him  that  rumors 
have  come  down  to  us  by  divers  means,  warning 
the  rapid  approach  of  John  on  Elsmere;  that  there 
is  command  for  preparation. 

Pellas.  I  will.  (Exeunt  Officers.}  (After  hesi 
tating — to  Melmouth.)  My  lord.  (No  answer.) 
My  lord. 

Mel  moth.  (Rising  fro?n  bed  and  turning  des 
perately  to  Pellas.)  Pellas!  Pellas! 

Pellas.    (Confused.)    My  lord, — the  state's  afire! 

Melmoth.  Let  it  burn!  Let  havoc  come  with 
out  as  it  has  come  within! 

Pellas.     I  bid  your  grace — 

Melmoth.  Not  here!  Not  here!  Speak  to  me 
without — (Turns  appealing!?  to  Cedrielle.)  Cedri- 
elle — I'm  on  the  breast  of  confusion.  Oh,  this  hath 
no  climax!  It  is  the  prelude  to  the  end.  And  I 
could  end  it  too,  but  that  self-release,  which  dis 
claims  the  immortal  spirit,  makes  nothing  of  great 
woe,  and  I  would  feed  on  it. 

Cedrielle.       (Understandingly    as   Melmoth    and 
Pellas  go  out.)     Oh,  my  gracious  lord! 
Curtain 

SCENE  2.  A  path  in  the  King's  Forest.  Music 
and  laughter  are  heard  from  the  distance.  Mas- 
queraders  passing. 

Enter  De  Forest,  Edwin  and  Steele. 
Steele.     Our    coming    here     to-night    well-nigh 
amounts  to  an  adventure.     Set  well  your  masks.  Es- 


ACT  V  157 

mund's  death  may  lead  to  our  discovery. 

Edwin.     Were  we  less  chivalrous — 

Steele.     You  mean,  were  we  less  assinine — 

De  Forest.  (Abruptly.)  Were  you  less  the 
fools,  you  would  not  speak  of  this  now. 

Steele.     Humph. 

Edwin.     Humph. 

De  Forest.  If  we  did  assist  in  Esmund's  libera 
tion,  we  thought  not  of  his  death.  No  one  knows 
of  our  part  in  the  affair  and  'twill  be  but  through 
the  folly  of  our  own  lips  that  any  shall.  He  was 
our  friend.  'Twas  nothing  wrong  to  aid  him. 

Steele.  Henry's  right,  after  all,  eh,  Edwin?  We 
always  held  that  regrets  have  long  tails  and  small 
heads;  in  fact,  they  are  miserable  companions.  I  say, 
let  us  look  rather  to  the  promise  of  the  evening  and 
make  merry. 

Enter  other  masqueraders,  singing. 

Edwin.  Here's  a  junket  company,  a  full  night, 
music  and  a  Bacchanalian  atmosphere. 

Steele.  And  women,  the  dearest  things  on  God's 
gay  world! 

De  Forest.  It  seems  to  me,  the  spirit's  taken  the 
age  by  the  horns. 

Steele.  Hear  their  shouts  and  laughter!  It 
makes  my  heart  young  again. 

Edwin.  Romance  never  had  a  fitter  dwelling- 
place  than  this. 

Steele.  La,  sol,  fa,  me,  do!  If  I  could  count 
my  age  by  my  gaiety,  I  would  lose  half  my  years. 
Come  away,  away. 

De  Forest.  Bear  memory  of  our  costumes,  Rich 
ard,  else  you'll  lose  us. 

Steele.   I'll  know  you  more  easily  by  your  bellies, 


158      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

which,  alas,  are  so  pretentious,  they  cannot  help  be 
tray  you.  And  as  to  losing  you,  dear  Henry,  that 
would  indeed  be  too  great  a  stroke  of  fortune.  In 
truth,  I  cannot  lose  you. 

Enter  several  Courtiers,  hastily. 

De  Forest.  What's  the  matter,  friends?  This 
festive  night  is  not  in  harmony  with  your  com 
plexion. 

Steele.  (To  Courtiers.)  You  should  drain  a 
cup  to  chase  the  pallor  from  it. 

Edwin.     But  what's  the  matter?     Tell  us. 

Courtier.  The  world  should  weep;  alas,  a  fool 
is  dead. 

De  Forest.  Nothing  else?  There  are  so  many  of 
them  living,  we  make  nothing  of  them,  dead. 

Second  Courtier.  But  this  fool's  found  when  he 
is  lost.  On  the  approach,  a  pretty  distance  away, 
we  chanced  upon  the  lifeless,  self-handled  body  of 
the  court  jester. 

All.     What  do  you  say? — Splinters? 

First  Courtier.     None  other. 

All.     How  came  he  by  his  death? 

First  Courtier.  Out  of  great  respect  for  him 
self  he  hanged  himself.  We  had  him  borne  away 
to  wait  the  evening's  end,  lest  the  news  of  his  sui 
cide  interfere  with  the  pleasures.  Meanwhile  we 
shall  to  the  king  to  inform  him  of  it. 

Masquerader.     Why  did  he  hang  himself? 

Another  Masquerader.  Why  do  fools  do  things? 
Because  they  lack  wisdom  to  let  them  alone.  But  in 
truth,  I  heard  say,  the  king  defied  him  to  it. 

Third  Masquerader.     On   what  account? 

Another  Masquerader.     I'm   unaware.     There's 


ACT  V  159 

more  annexed  to  this  than  we  shall  ever  know. 

Fourth  Masquerader.  Splinters  was  to  be  the 
life  and  spirit  of  this  evening.  Without  him  we 
cannot  anticipate  so  much. 

Curtain 

SCENE  3.  King's  Forest.  Arranged  for  a  Mas 
que.  Flowers  strewn  upon  the  ground.  Varied 
colored  lanterns  hang  upon  the  trees.  Music  is 
heard.  Throne  of  flowers  to  right,  front  of  stage. 
Discovered  Masqueraders,  dancing.  De  Forest, 
alone.  Enter  to  him  a  Masquerader. 

Masquerader.     De  Forest? 

De  Forest.     Oh,  say,  I  am  discovered! 

Masquerader.  What,  alone  in  this  gay  com 
pany? 

De  Forest.     Better  than  alone. 

Masquerader.     Then  with  your  thoughts. 

De  Forest.  Ay,  but  they  are  dreary  fellows 
to-night. 

Masquerader.     Strange,  for  they  are  seldom  so. 

De  Forest.  More  strange  they  are  not  ever  so. 
The  eye  must  be  shut  against  the  world  that  the 
heart  may  permit  itself  a  pleasure. 

Masquerader.  You  are  morose.  Where's  the 
cause?  I'd  marvel  not  if  I  could  find  it  there! 
(Pointing  to  women  in  the  crowd.} 

De  Forest.  This  once  you  are  at  fault.  How 
make  you  of  this  night,  friend  ?  Is  there  not  some 
thing  unreal  about  it  all?  Things  over  much  lean 
ing  against  things  without  construction?  These 
colored  lights,  this  fitful  music,  see,  these  moving 
figures,  and  then  tragedy  behind  them,  more 


160      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

real  than  their  lives — what  does  it  mean?  What 
shall  we  make  of  it?  When  the  night  is  wasted, 
each  creeps  back  to  a  stale  and  lonely  bed,  and 
thinks  on  the  buried  scene  with  that  terrible  empti 
ness  of  soul,  which  great  events,  the  surfeit  of  un 
realities,  ever  bring  on.  Even  as  on  the  stage, 
where  the  brilliants  are  glass;  fire,  paint;  swords, 
tinsel ;  so  here  and  so  everywhere.  In  a  little  while 
these  trees  will  again  be  joined  to  their  quietude  and 
not  a  solitary  echo  remain  to  tell  of  this  night's 
dream.  (Pause.) 

Masquerader.  Where's  the  profit  of  thinking 
when  it  grieves?  Let  wise  men  weep  and  fools 
enjoy  their  pleasures.  Let  us  go  thither. 

De  Forest.  (With  abandon.)  Ay.  Let's  away 
into  the  swirl!  We'll  ride  the  bubble  while  'tis 
blown  to  burst  with  it.  Let  the  fretting  world  go 
hang,  the  furies  take  to-morrow. 

Masquerader.  We'll  have  our  wine  and  song  in 
spite  of  it.  (They  mingle  with  the  others.) 

Enter  Melmoth  and  Pellas. 
Melmoth.     Let   not   my   entrance   interrupt   the 

dance. 

You  have  my  welcome,  all  the  company. 
See  to  the  evening  and  its  possibilities. 
Each  follow  out  his  own,  and  all  in  all, 
Unite  to  make  it  pleasant. 

(Dance  is  resumed.) 

(Melmoth  and  Pellas  go  down  stage — near 
to  the  throne.)  Pellas,  I  fear  I  am 
doomed. 

Pellas.     My  lord,  I  fear  I  never  understand  you. 

Melmoth.     No.     It  is  a  deep  doom  that  drags 

to  beyond  death,   and   there  the  unutterable  com- 


ACT  V  161 

mencement,  that  puzzling  state  which  lets  not  the 
wit  of  man.  But  I  do  hold  it  nothing.  It  is  a 
fear,  that  being  familiar  with  it,  I  am  grown  to 
neglect. 

Pellas.  I'm  troubled  much,  I  cannot  understand 
you,  nor  the  least  of  what  you  say.  Ever  is  it 
thus:  to  my  most  direct  questioning  you  give  me 
answer  in  such  special  terms,  it  puzzles  me.  But 
one  need  not,  I  know,  understand  to  sympathize. 

Melmoth.  Ay,  one  need  not.  Sympathy  lives 
not  in  the  understanding.  It  dwells  in  the  ever 
widening  circle  of  our  lives  and  we  around  it.  Erst 
while  I  thought,  that  to  feel  with  grief  was  to  pity 
error.  But  I  would  err  sweetly,  time  not  in  telling, 
if  so  'twould  bring  me  sympathy — that  universal 
bond — or  do  whatever,  if  that  earned  more  of  it. 
Pellas,  once  I  was  strong;  once  there  was  a  time 
when  I  could  pit  myself  against  all  laws  that  na 
ture  cracks  of,  and  yet  prevail.  Now  I  cannot  even 
against  the  least  of  them. 

Enter  several  Courtiers.  They  approach  Mel- 
moth. 

First  Courtier.     My  lord, — 

Melmoth.     Well? 

First  Courtier.  We  come  with  news  of  such  a 
kind,  we  know  not  how  you'll  take  it,  well  or  ill. 
Ourselves  are  sad  over  it.  Splinters  is  dead,  and 
apparently  by  his  own  hand  removed. 

Pellas.     Splinters,   dead  ? 

Melmoth.  Strange  was  his  life  as  the  departing 
it.  Had  I  true  learning  of  the  man  in  him,  I  were 
now  less  bitterly  taught.  (To  Courtiers.}  Where 
did  you  come  upon  his  form? 

Courtier.     In  his  majesty's  own  forest. 


1 62      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Melmoth.  That  is  so.  Are  there  many  days 
since  this  occurred  ? 

Courtier.  Earlier  than  yesterday,  surely,  or  the 
day  before. 

Second  Courtier.  The  body  may  have  lain  there 
several  days,  my  lord. 

First  Courtier.     Ay,  perhaps  three  or  four. 

Melmoth.     Stay  now,  stay  now — three  or  four? 

Second  Courtier.     Or  five. 

Melmoth.  That's  better.  Always  is  death  a 
reproach  to  memory;  it  wounds  where  it  reminds. 
Living  I  could  not  conceive  him  so  well  as  now. 
He  failed  not.  He  was  a  man,  more  normal  in 
his  nature,  more  noble  in  his  madness,  than  many 
in  their  endurance.  I  loved  him  better  than  I  knew. 
(Clamor  without.)  Who  are  those  that  come  with 
such  bold  clamor  to  break  up  this  night? 

Enter  from  up  stage,  in  haste,  St.  Francis, 
Officers  of  the  Army,  and  others. 

(To  St.  Francis.)  What  moral's  in  this  noise 
beside  your  own? 

St.  Francis.     (Holding  up  a  paper.)     My  lord — 

Melmoth.  When  I  would  be  away  from  the 
tumult  of  the  world,  the  hang  and  shift  of  affairs — 

St.  Francis.      (Flaunting  the  paper.)     My  lord! 

Melmoth.  They  come  upon  me  with  contracts, 
forms,  demands  and  such  formalities — instruments 
devised  for  one  another's  harm — that  they  draw 
upon  my  patience.  What  will  you? 

St.  Francis.  My  lord,  we  almost  envy  words 
the  time  we  waste  on  them.  Now  there  is  no  tarry 
ing.  Fate  waits  without  our  very  walls.  The  base 
Pretender,  re-enforced  with  squadrons  of  the  Aus 
trian  and  Prussian  armies,  lingers  expectantly  on  the 


ACT  V  163 

break  of  next  day's  morn.  The  moment's  now  that 
we  must  up  in  arms. 

Melmoth.  Be  contained  St.  Francis.  I  am  in 
different  to  your  tidings. 

St.  Francis.  Indifferent,  my  lord!  Mistake  me 
not.  I  grieve  to  think  that  at  this  high  impending 
hour,  when  I  should  have  your  confidence  in  mat 
ters  of  the  state,  you  take  my  purpose  wrongly. 

Melmoth.  Do  not  speak  to  me!  Let  matters 
be  as  near  and  dark  as  doom,  such  is  my  mood, 
I'll  not  concern  myself.  The  night  is  given  over; 
let  nothing  mar  it! 

St.  Francis.  Nothing  mars  it  more  than  this 
reply.  (To  Officers.)  This  is  sheer  madness,  my 
lords. 

Melmoth.  (Warningly.)  Oh,  Francis,  the  gods 
you  serve  are  false.  Hurl  them  down  to  the  dust 
whence  they've  sprung. 

St.  Francis.  You  jest,  my  gracious  lord.  But 
what  a  pretty  time  for  banter! 

Melmoth.     Francis,  beware! 

St.  Francis.  (Turning  to  those  about  him.) 
Comrades,  ho! 

Pellas.  Francis,  thou  pursuest  hotly  thine  own 
perdition ! 

St.  Francis.  Fie  upon  it  all!  Father  you  are 
dull!  See  how  the  varying  moods  of  kings  will 
plunge  a  world  into  ruin!  Another  day  and  we 
shall  have  the  Prussian  gonfalons  flaunted  to  our 
faces,  and  Elsmere's  auriflame,  a  bedraggled  rag 
for  some  proud  Prussian  cocks  and  traitor-knaves 
to  spit  upon.  But  we'll  not  stand  and  wait  to  see 
the  assailing  wave  burst  our  dikes,  rush  in  and  over 
whelm  us.  (To  Masqueraders.)  Off  with  your 


1 64      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

masks!  Fling  them  away  to  the  winds  whose  idle 
ness  was  but  now  in  harmony  with  your  own.  This 
is  no  time  for  play!  Lovers  of  Elsmere,  follow 
me!  Yet  to-night,  we'll  see  our  lines  arrayed  for 
defense.  Our  Country  labors  in  her  final  pain — 
to  live  or  to  die!  (Going,  and  suddenly  turning.} 
Father,  you  stay  behind? 

Pellas.  Francis,  you  step  upon  your  honor.  If 
you  go  thus  away,  bear  my  curse  away  with  you! 

St.  Francis.  Rest  sure,  father,  I'll  not  fall  by  't. 
And  as  for  him, — life  and  liberty  are  dearer  to  us 
than  many  times  that  king.  (All  go  out  but  Mel- 
moth  and  Pellas.} 

Melmoth.     Pellas,  of  what  quality  is  thy  son? 

Pellas.  My  lord,  I'm  punished  in  him.  There 
is  no  quality  that  he  had  not,  but  all  were  so  per 
verted,  that  now  one  cannot  tell  the  original  good 
in  him.  He  was  instructed  well,  my  lord,  but  his 
nature  opposed. 

Melmoth.  How  evenly  does  the  little  world 
shadow  forth  the  greater!  (Satan  appears  dimly.} 
What  masquer  is  that  that  tarries?  Did  they 
not  go — all  of  them? 

Pellas.     Ay,  all.     I  see  no  one.   Where,  my  lord  ? 

Melmoth.  He  is  familiar.  Nay,  I  know  him. 
Death  to  my  soul! 

Pellas.  There's  no  one  here,  my  lord.  See  for 
yourself.  'Tis  your  mind's  survey  of  its  own 
imaginings — nothing  else. 

Melmoth.  He  remembered  to  come.  But  why 
so  ragged,  so  meagre,  so  unattractive?  I  like  him 
not.  He  might  have  come  in  purple  robes,  a  crown 
upon  his  head,  a  victor!  He  might  have  pleased 
me;  he  might  have  drawn  upon  the  eye  and  still 


ACT  V  165 

engaged  a  fancy;  but  he  is  nothing  now.  The  cap 
is  beggarly;  the  plume  droops.  Yet  for  this,  I 
scaled  the  world  and  mounted  stars! 

Pellas.     Mad!     Mad!    Alas! 

Mehnoth.  Ay,  I  know  him  well.  Coming,  he 
comes  well-timed.  This  is  the  unheroing  of  my 
ambition,  the  fortunate  collapse.  Go,  Pellas,  give 
space  to  my  sight  that  I  may  see  him  only. 

Pellas.  (As  he  goes  out.)  Mad!  Mad!  (Satan 
appears  more  distinct  and  approaches  Melmoth.) 

Satan.     Well,  Melmoth,  we  meet  again. 

Melmoth.     Ay,  but  this  is  another  day,  Satan. 

Satan.  Yet  it  seems  to  me,  looking  upon  you 
(Pauses  and  regards  Melmoth.)  that  the  period  of 
time  which  has  elapsed  between  our  last  meeting 
and  this,  has  wrought  no  change.  You  are  the 
same. 

Melmoth.  To  say  so  is  to  reveal  your  dis 
appointment. 

Satan.  Still  misfiguring  yourself!  Melmoth, 
when  will  you  awaken? 

Mehnoth.  'Tis  you  that  sleep  to  my  awakening. 
My  resurrection  is  come!  'Tis  here;  'tis  all  about 
me.  I  feel  it  in  every  living  fibre  of  my  frame.  In 
trying  to  further  the  evil  in  me,  Satan,  you  have 
brought  forth  the  good.  But  tell  me,  why  have  you 
come  to-night?  To  spare  me  another  effort? 

Satan.  Where's  your  once-devouring  ambition, 
Melmoth  ? 

Melmoth.  I  have  flung  it  from  me.  Ambition's 
for  a  time. 

Satan.  (Mockingly.)  So  it  is,  things  of  sweep 
and  altitude  you  drag  down  to  the  low  level  and 
base  of  your  despair,  and  in  that  moment,  fail.  Ha, 


1 66      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

ha.  Well  then,  the  time  is  come  when  we  must 
reach  an  understanding. 

Melmoth.      (Calmly.)      I   am  satisfied. 

Satan.     Not  sorry? 

Melmoth.     No,  in  faith,  not  sorry. 

Satan.     Except  for  yourself,  of  course. 

Melmoth.  No,  no,  not  for  myself  even.  I  could 
not  ever  say  that  I  was  happy.  I  say  it  now,  with 
the  whole  solid  mass  of  this  world  melting  like 
a  shadow  before  me.  But  tell  me,  is  it  really  so 
long  we  have  not  met?  I  forget,  Satan,  I  forget. 
How  long?  A  week?  A  month? 

Satan.     Longer,  longer,  Melmoth. 

Melmoth.  But  there  is  feeling  that  I've  seen 
and  spoken  to  you  often  times  before. 

Satan.  Your  sick  imagination,  Melmoth;  your 
fear  of  me. 

Melmoth-  Nay,  nay,  it  is  not  that.  Once  indeed 
I  feared  you,  but  with  the  coming  of  conviction  the 
fear  of  you  has  left  me. 

Satan.  Then,  Melmoth,  you  have  forgotten 
what  awaits  you  beyond. 

Melmoth.  I  have  not.  But  the  light  opened 
up  to  my  soul  will  equate  whatever  chastisement 
written  out  for  me.  The  other  light — the  thing 
unattainable  for  which  I  craved,  I  crave  not.  Yet 
even  were  I  strong  enough  to  make  of  it  demand, 
you  could  not  answer  me.  This  you  were  careful 
to  conceal ;  and  I  was  foolish  to  believe  that  any 
of  your  tribe  could  give  of  Knowledge  and  Power. 
For  truly,  'tis  Heaven's  alone.  Satan,  in  your  tri 
umph,  I  triumph  with  you,  since  in  losing  to  you, 
I  have  found  myself.  The  power  of  evil  has  re 
vealed  to  me  the  power  divine.  I  have  learned  that 


ACT  V  167 

there  is  more  to  this  life  than  the  merely  living  it. 
I've  realized  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the  human 
soul ;  discovered  in  the  lowest,  in  the  most  aberrant 
of  nature,  the  spark  divine.  But  mistake  not  to 
think,  Satan,  that  I  see  you  other  than  what  you 
are:  the  unhappy  maker  and  minister  of  evil,  who, 
in  the  agony  of  his  consciousness,  must  know  that 
all  his  efforts  to  destroy  shall  be  as  futile  as  the 
ambitions  of  man ;  who  must  know  that,  on  the  tab 
let  of  the  universe,  blood  and  fire  write  out  his  even 
tual  doom. 

Satan.  Who  are  you  that  thus  in  this  easy  man 
ner  accuse  me?  You,  the  groveling,  hungering 
figure  of  a  man  that,  for  the  Monarchy  of  Self,  made 
great  Satan  create  for  him  a  world  which  he  might 
rule  and  abuse.  You  speak  to  me  thus!  You, 
who  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  whim  would  roll  to 
gether  the  heavens  like  a  scroll  and  throw  it  into  the 
flames. 

Melmoth.  Enough,  Satan !  This  was  I  once. 
This  am  I  no  more.  I  have  shuffled  off  the  old  coil. 

Satan.  Ha,  you  pass  it  off  so  slightly?  Do  you 
purposely  forget  the  consequence  of  your  self-en 
slavement — the  unnumbered  misdeeds  that  trail 
from  your  first  acts  to  the  end  of  age?  See,  you 
have  waged  war,  incited  vengeance,  encouraged 
crime,  murdered,  and  killed  with  weapons  other 
than  mortal.  But  most  were  you  abandoned,  when 
in  the  extreme  of  greed  you  strove  against  and 
lost  the  thing  you  loved. 

Melmoth.  All  that  is  passed ;  it  cannot  be  again. 
If  I  have  left  traces  of  crime  behind  me,  by  heaven, 
they  shall  be  cancelled.  For  I  have  risen  to  that 
glorious  height  where  I  can  find  it  in  my  heart  to 


1 68      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

regret  and  feel  redeemed. 

Satan.  That  hardly  clears  you.  But,  in  truth, 
Melmoth,  we've  played  so  long  together,  I've  grown 
quite  fond  of  you.  Perhaps  we  may  yet  do  a  little 
business.  Who  can  tell?  While  Satan  lives  and 
Melmoth  lives,  and  there's  a  world  between  them — 

Melmoth.     I  have  done. 

Satan.  Done?  To-day  we  are  sure,  fast,  firm, 
and  formidable.  To-morrow  we  are  weak  again. 
Re-enter  Pellas. 

Pellas.  Your  majesty,  I  bring  sad  news  of  the 
Lady  Dolora.  She  is  dead. 

Melmoth.  Her  end  is  the  end  indeed!  I  could 
almost  wish  all  the  events,  from  the  first  beginning, 
to  roll  back  again  to  the  tangled  hours  of  yester 
day,  for  her  sake  alone.  Once  more  to  see  her,  and 
that  the  last. 

Satan.  Your  crown,  your  sceptre,  your  royal 
robes,  my  lord — 

Melmoth.  Drag  them  to  hell  with  you.  ( They 
go  out.)  (Satan  looks  after  them.) 

Curtain 

SCENE  4.  Prince  John  encamped  before  the  walls 
of  Elsmere.  Camp  fires  are  burning  along  the  line. 
Lights  seen  from  the  city.  It  is  still  night,  but 
gradually  daivning. 

Discovered  Dohlgrin  and  Brabant. 
Dohlgrin.     This    morning    air    fills    one    to    the 

breadth 

Of  living.     It  hath  not  in  it  withal 
The  lazy  energy  of  the  sun 


ACT  V  169 

That  comes  on  noonday.     Brabant, 

I  know  not  why  I  am  so  confident 

Of  this  day's  outcome.     It  is  as  if 

The  battle  had  already  been  decided, 

The  vict'ry  ours,  and  John  upon  the  throne. 

Brabant.     So  I  feel ;  so  do  we  all.     The  spirit 
Of  success  is  that  high  among  our  men, 
It  puts  out  to  the  last  enduring  flame 
The  witching  fires  of  doubt.     How  is  it? 
Will  Melmoth  come  into  the  field?     If  he 
does — 

Dohlgrin.     I  doubt  it  very  much.     His  manner 
From  the  very  first  indicated 
That  pure  indifference  to  his  own  as  well 
As  t'  Elsmere's  fate,  there's  no  expecting  him. 

Brabant.     Then    I    know   one    who'll    lead    the 
lines  to-day. 

Dohlgrin.     That  one  we  hope  to  meet. 

Him  is  it  only  to  oppose,  and  him  we'll  silence 
Even  to  the  last  lap  of  memory, 
That  trace  of  one  so  irreclaimable 
Be  lost  with  his  death. 

Brabant.     If  he  dare  come — 

Dohlgrin.     But  he  will,  Brabant;  this  is  the  pink 
Of  his  deep  and  delicate  manoeuvering : 
To  press  Elsmere  to  resistance,  and  make 
This  quarrel  his  own. 

Brabant.     Pray  God,  'twill  be  his  last,  then. 

Dohlgrin.     The  first  should  have  been  his  last. 
I  know  Francis. 

His  virtues  are  so  small  they're  eaten  up 
By  his  multiplying  vices,  which 
Alone  remain.     So,  in  this  stand, 
Bayed  by  fear  of  the  contingency, 


170      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

Like  a  cat,  he  will  desert  his  cowardice, 
And  spring  into  the  face.     More  than  one 

life 

Should  be  his  that  justice  may  at  all 
Be  satisfied. 

Enter  from  tent  John,  Royce,  Berkeley  and  others. 
John.     Look,   Royce,   how  innocent  now  is  the 

scene 

So  possible  of   the  direst. 
There  the  soldiers  lie,  fully  accoutred, 
As  though  slain  with  sleep.    Even  the  daunt 
Of  new  or  immediate  encounter 
Cannot  take  away  the  peace  from  their  slum 
ber. 
(To  Dohlgrin  and  Brabant.)     Good  friends, 

you  come  to  greet  me  early. 
Dohlgrin   and  Brabant.     Good   morrow   to   our 

Prince. 
Dohlgrin.     Has  intelligence  of  the  enemy  come 

down  to  us? 

John.     We  await  the  final  word.     But,  my  gen 
erals, 

Make  glad  your  hearts.     No  greater  victory 
Attended  our  winning.     Dark  civil  strife 
As  by  the  last  reports  we  may  construe 
Dulls  Elsmere's  appetite  for  an  engagement. 
Royce.     All's   fair. 

Ere  the  heavens  bring  on  another  day, 
Our  dreaded  eagle,  fierce  with  victory, 
Shall  screeching  fly  above  yon  battlements 
Where  Arnheim's  banners  will  anon  be  hung, 
To  hang  always. 

John.     These  words,  encouraging  of  the  fairest, 
Commend  themselves  to  our  hearts. 


ACT  V  171 

Enter  soldier  in  haste. 

(To  Soldier.)  What  now?  What  have  you  to 
report  ? 

Soldier.  Your  grace,  the  armies  of  the  enemy 
have  sallied  forth.  They  come  upon  us  in  three 
divisons,  mainly  from  the  east. 

John.  Sound  the  alarum!  How  do  they  num 
ber,  do  you  know?  (Exeunt  several  officers.) 

Soldier.  Full  ten  thousand  strong,  if  judgment 
be  not  erring. 

John.  Who  commands?  Who  bears  the  bloody 
ensign  ? 

Soldier.     The  Marquis  of  Lode. 

Royce.     St.  Francis,  my  lord. 

John.  'Tis  time,  then,  to  set  our  battles  on. 
Array  the  lines.  Give  the  order  to  retreat.  We'll 
afford  them  an  advance.  (General  commotion.) 
(To  officers.)  How  are  you,  my  lords? 

Some.     More  than  eager. 

Brabant.     The  high  hour  we  waited  for  so  long 
Has  come  at  last  to  make  us  jealous 
Of  its  every  moment. 

John.  For  this,  my  friends,  I  owe  you  better 
than  thanks.  Elsmere  shall  live  again  in  us. 

All.     And  we  in  her. 

(Exeunt  marching.     Drum  and  colors.) 

SCENE  5.    The  same. 

Enter  St.  Francis,  Toussan  and  armies.  A  royal 
scribe. 

St.  Francis.     My  royal  scribe,  let  this  be  noted 

well; 
That  full  against  our  will  do  we  now  place 


172      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

The  stake  of  all  this  glorious  dominion 
Upon  the  hazard  of  a  single  fight. 
This  too  forget  not;  that  all  unaided, 
Wholly  discountenanced  by  our  traitor  king, 
We  still  have  nobly  dedicated  ourselves 
To  save  our  country  from  the  unwarranted 

claim 

Of  the  Pretender.    Whate'er  result, 
Posterity  shall  know  and  praise  our  deed 
Till  another  like  it  will  applaud 
The  echo  of  this.     And  if  we  fail, 
There'll  be  ourselves  to  blame,  none  others. 

(Sounds  of  drums,  from  a  distance.) 
They're    coming    on!      Mount    courage    on 

your  arms,  my  men, 
And  make  your  hearts  the  whetstone  of  your 

blades. 

Throw  your  shields  before  you. 
We'll  fight  them  till  our  limbs  are  hacked 

to  pieces, 

And  life's  a  jest.     Set  on  your  arms. 
Toussan,  ho!     Why  do  the  villains  halt? 
Toussan.     My  gracious  lord,   their  pennons  are 

being  lowered,  mark. 
It  is  a  sign  they  would  hold  parley. 
St.  Francis.     Stand  well  about  me.     I  mistrust 

their   ways. 

They  are  men  only  in  times  of  peace ; 
War  leaves  no  room  for  honor. 

(They  stand  about  him.) 
Now  let  them  come  on. 

Enter  John  and  army. 

John.     I  had  hoped  to  find  a  worthier  adversary. 
St.  Francis.      (Scornfully.)     Worthier  must  have 


ACT  V  173 

worthy. 

Were  I  not  thy  better  in  all  additions, 
I'd  now  be  where  those  dark  sons  of  the 

kingdom 
(Signifying   Berkeley,   Brabant   and   Royce 

and  Dohlgrin.) 

Are  fawning  like  dogs  about  you. 
John.     I  grudge  the  patience  that  suffers  you  this 

liberty 

Of  further  speech. 
St.  Francis.     Grudge  me  not.    I'll  speak  no  extra 

words. 

My  sword  hath  a  readier  tongue. 
There's  more  condition  in  a  single  stroke 
Then  in  a  tide  of  unfledged  words. 
Will  you  fight? 
John.     Peace,  henchmen! 

If  thou  hast  courage  to  fight  this  out  alone 
Within  the  sight  and  witness  of  both  our 

armies, 

Stand  forth  from  the  shelter  of  those  men  ; 
There  is  no  need  to  shed  much  costly  blood, 
Since  you  have  made  this  quarrel  all  your 

own, — 

It  boots  nothing  for  Elsmere  or  her  king. 
St.  Francis.     Liar !    My  price  is  not  a  crown. 
Let   those   lips   rot   that  vomit   forth   such 

calumny!        (Armies  prepare  to  fight.) 
My  voice  is  the  general,  and  my  answer  in 

these  swords. 
(Armies  join  in  battle,  as  curtain  goes  down.) 

Curtain 


174      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

SCENE  5.  Room  in  the  castle;  draped  in  black. 
Tester  to  one  side. 

Enter  two  servants  with  candles. 

Peter.     Alas,  alack,  O  woe,  O  well-a-day,  Philip ! 

Philip.  Well,  a  day,  well  a  day,  Peter.  Spare 
me  your  tears,  Peter.  There's  more  to  be  cried  over 
in  the  matter  of  one's  life  than  by  one's  death. 
Therefore  it  is  said,  only  fools  make  ado  when  their 
fellows  drop  away.  When  we  begin  to  think, 
Peter,  o'  the  many  that  sleep  beneath  the  sod,  and 
"pan*  passu,"  o'  the  many  that  sleep  above  it,  one 
death  or  life,  or  a  thousand  deaths  or  lives,  is  verily 
a  little  matter,  for  in  the  great  throng  of  things 
it  is  passed  over  like  an  old  year.  Just  think,  Peter, 
there  are  men,  nations  and  languages,  thoughts,  ac 
tions  and  accomplishments,  co-eval  with  us,  and  yet, 
so  unrelated  are  they  to  our  needs,  they  do  not  even 
exist  to  us!  I  tell  thee  what,  Peter,  and  hold 
those  words  to  your  heart.  This  world  is  gone  to 
the  hang.  Old  men  live  till  they  fall  in  love  again, 
and  youth  is  cut  off  in  the  cradle.  When  such  as 
haven't  yet  known  the  tip-taste  of  life,  make  them 
selves  a  grave,  there's  no  dignity  in  being  old  any 
more.  For  my  part,  if  I  hadn't  come  to  these  two- 
score  and  ten  I'd  have  stopped  at  thirty. 

Peter.  Ay,  Philip.  But  this  woman  was  known 
to  have  been  a  queen;  a  virgin,  God  rest  her  soul! 
A  lady  of  description,  no  ordinary  thing! 

Philip.  Therefore,  Peter,  should  we  make  the 
more  of  her!  Death  is  as  real  to  one  as  to  the 
other,  and  there  are  a  sad  many  of  quality,  equally 
choice,  that  go  down  to  their  silence,  unsung.  You 
say  this  Dolora  was  a  virgin,  a  lady,  a  queen,  if 


ACT  V  175 

you  will  have  it.  She  died.  Sad,  she  died.  But 
how  many  of  your  brothers'  sons  are  even  now 
kicking  their  last  on  the  battlefield  within  easy 
distance  of  this  castle.  You  make  no  moan  at  that. 
The  death  of  one  near  to  us  is  the  loss  of  a  world, 
but  the  loss  of  an  actual  world — the  report  of  thou 
sands  dying,  will  not  dull  our  appetites.  I  say, 
dying's  become  the  comedy  and  living  the  other 
thing. 

Peter.  How  came  she  to  die,  Philip,  do  you 
know? 

Philip.  Peter,  Peter,  who  can  know  the  loads 
that  hang  about  the  souls  of  such  as  toy  with  sceptres 
or  deal  in  high  intrigue?  A  simple  life  merits 
a  simple  death.  I'll  give  thee  a  plain  coffin, 
Peter,  and  you'll  not  haunt  me.  Rich  men  balk 
even  after  they're  laid  away.  My  marquis  such-a- 
one  would  have  a  catafalque,  and  trimmings,  and 
jewels,  and  fineries;  chaplets,  wreaths,  and  a  splash 
of  ceremony!  He  would  have  a  procession  to  fol 
low  him,  hymns  to  be  sung  after  him,  mass  to  be 
said  over  him,  and  rhetoric  to  be  flouted  about  him 
— and  what  not  besides!  Else  he'll  not  rest  easy. 
But  lay  to  it,  Peter,  Peter,  you'll  sleep  as  sound  and 
as  snug  as  he,  and  turn  not  once  over. 

Peter.  (Dubiously.)  Humph!  I'll  not  gain 
say  you. 

Philip.     But  for  all  that,  this  is  a  sad  time  indeed. 

Peter.  Alas,  alas,  it  is.  She  was  a  sweet  lady. 
Enter  Melmoth. 

Philip.  Set  'em  down;  set  'em  down.  Me- 
thinks  we  are  observed.  (They  set  down  the 
candles.) 

Melmoth.     What  shall  adorn  the  tomb  that  does 


176      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

not  life? 

Flowers,  habit,  tears,  respect,  what? 
Why    these    candles?      Their    superstitious 

light 

Hath  that  strangely-sown  virtue  in  it, 
It  makes  all  things  within  the  radiance 
Of  its  hollow  beams,  suggestive  and  dim. 
Peter.     Yet  we  need   them,   my  lord,   to  make 
death  seem  more  serious,  for  the  pathos  of  life  takes 
away  the  sting  from  mortality. 

Philip.  That's  true,  my  lord.  Death's  the  easier 
of  the  two,  and  most  when  the  tire  of  things,  comes 
on. 

Melmoth.     What  is  your  part  in  this  event? 
Philip.     We  are  mourners,  my  lord,  with  the  rest. 
Melmoth.     Is   it   still    in   you   to   mourn,    good 
friends?     Has  not  death,  to  whose  form  you  are 
accustomed,  having  attended  upon  it  so  often,  lost 
its  seriousness  for  you? 

Peter.  Our  hands,  my  lord,  are  indeed  become 
cold  to  the  touch  of  the  dead,  but  we  are  men. 

Philip.  Great  sorrow  in  our  own  lives,  makes 
us  blink  at  others. 

Melmoth.  What  sorrow,  friend,  was  in  thine, 
that  you  do  speak? 

Philip.     A  death,  my  lord. 
Melmoth.     Death?    That's  mere. 
Philip.     A  death  of  the  spirit,  my  lord ! 
Melmoth.     Ah! 
Philip.     I  was  a  poet  once. 
Peter.     A  painter,  I. 

Philip.      (With  sincerity.)      But  there  was  one 
that  mocked  at  my  endeavors — 
Peter.     And  flouted  mine. 


ACT  V  177 

Philip.  (Vehemently.)  Who  disclaimed  the 
beauty  of  our  creations,  and  destroyed  their  truths! 
Who  took  upon  himself  to  judge  the  eternal! 
Matched  art  with  years,  and  named  all,  futile! 
Who  brought  on  sorrow,  pain  and  disappointment; 
blighted  dear  hopes,  sweet  fancies  and  life's  dream; 
crossed  our  years  and  destinies,  (Sadly.)  that  we  no 
longer  live. 

Peter.  You  gave  us  gold,  my  lord,  but  that  was 
squandered. 

Melmoth.  (Realizing.)  O,  look  not  at  me, 
friends!  Can  I  be  he  that's  wronged  you, 
myself,  and  all  the  world  so  cruelly?  No 
more,  no  more!  Alas!  How  necessary  are 
your  dreams,  great  men!  For  they  alone  are 
real  and  enduring!  Oh,  what  further  beauty  has 
my  life  betrayed?  What  things  will  yet  arise  to 
make  my  final  years  a  tribute  to  sorrow?  Oh,  look 
not  at  me,  masters. 

Peter.  See,  he  repents.  The  prophecy  of  my 
picture  is  fulfilled ;  he  is  now  as  I  once  painted  him 
— noble. 

Enter  funeral  procession. 

Melmoth.     They  bring  her  here.     I  do  not  feel 
her  death 

So  much  now,  as  I  had  thought  to  do. 
For  with  it,  life's  caught  ; 
The  globe  of  a  thousand  passions  compre 
hended  ; 

And  the  fear  of  things  unknown  and  un 
discovered, 
Together  with   the   unnatural   craving   for 

them, 
Has  passed  away  completely. 


178      MELMOTH  THE  WANDERER 

(Coffin  is  placed  on  the  tester.) 
Enter  Courtier  to  Pellas. 

Courtier.     My  lord,  St.  Francis,  your  son,  is  dead. 
Pellas.     You  tell  me  nothing,  sir.     He  made  his 
bed  as  rude  as  that  he'll  lie  in.    Had  he  died  honor 
ably,  he  might  have  lived  in  my  heart.     I  think  no 
more  of  him.     (Perceiving  Melmoth.)     This  is  sor 
row,  indeed.      Here's  our  sometime  king  and  noble 
lord.     (Approaches  Melmoth.)     My  liege,  the  fates 
have  contrived  to  make  this  hour  the  most.     The 
rule  of  the  kingdom's  transferred;  her  chronicles, 
henceforth,  shall  be  written  by  other  hands  than  ours. 
Melmoth.     This  is  a  proper  consummation. 
Life  and  death,  and  life  and  death  again. 
The  universe  of  matter  and  of  soul 
Is  bound  up  in  a  perfect  harmony. 
Nature's  overmastering ! 
Not  an  atom,  moving,  but  it  affects 
The  uttermost  star. 
A  breeze  that  blows;  a  wave,  beating  on  the 

shore, 

Echoes  through  all  eternities  of  space! 
A  spirit  mighty  with  the  voice  of  millions, 
Calls  upon  me  irresistibly 
And  bids  me  to  be  calm. 
Never  was  my  soul  more  tranquil  than  this — 
The  moment  of  its  resignation. 
(Stage  fills  with  soldiers,  officers  and  Captains  of 
the  army.) 

But  I  am  glad; 

The  vision's  from  the  tangled  skein  brought 

forth. 

Truth  shines  on  me  like  a  calm  star, 
Set  in  the  night ;  in  whose  light  I  shall  follow 


ACT  V 


And  pass  away. 

(All  stand  motionless  and  gaze  after  Melmoth  as 
he  goes  out.) 

Curtain 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


LOAN  DEP 


LD  21-100m-7'33 


<«*• 


YB  31589 


372219 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


